


Malefica Imperio

by assrelays



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assrelays/pseuds/assrelays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The thought of the Inquisitor made the ring on the chain around his neck hang heavy. It was all they had been able to recover of her—half of her arm, still burning an acidic green with the mark. The skin had been scorched black from the magic and crumbled into ash in a matter of hours. The only thing left of her was the engagement ring from her left finger."</p><p>The Inquisitor died following the events of Trespasser, and eight years later, Cullen is still haunted by it while visiting Minrathous on behalf of the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The clatter of the Minrathous streets under that horse's hooves was enough to give Cullen a fine headache. Though he had stopped taking lyrium for some ten years now, the pain still came and went, mostly in the form of throbbing migraines and sleepless nights. It was manageable now, not nearly as bad as in the beginning, but still enough to make him irritable, as if being in Tevinter wasn't enough on its own.

It was Josephine's idea of a subtle threat to send the commander of the Inquisition to the capital of Tevinter for negotiations. With all the power the Inquisition had collected in the past decade, it wasn't as if it was necessary—there was no doubt the Imperium knew exactly who they were dealing with. But their last emissaries had been stalled from addressing the Magisterium directly, despite efforts from the ambassador and Lucerni. So they had sent someone who wasn't as easy to ignore.

In truth, Cullen thought Josephine and Cassandra just wanted to get him out of Skyhold. Since the Inquisitor had died, he had buried himself in work. The result was great strides for the Inquisition—its grip over Orlais and Ferelden was stronger than ever, and its reach had expanded over the Free Marches, Rivain, and now even Tevinter itself. But it was at no small cost. Cullen could count on two hands the number of times he had gotten a full night's sleep in the past eight years.

The thought of the Inquisitor made the ring on the chain around his neck hang heavy. It was all they had been able to recover of her—half of her arm, still burning an acidic green with the mark. The skin had been scorched black from the magic and crumbled into ash in a matter of hours. The only thing left of her was the engagement ring from her left finger.

Under his armor, Cullen was sweating. The Imperium was significantly warmer than the south, especially in the height of summer. It suddenly made perfect sense to him why Dorian dressed the way he did. He had changed into his formal armor outside of the city, at the insistence of Lady Montilyet's ambassador to the Imperium—something about presenting himself well. Now, even in the heat, he was thankful for the metal chest piece. He didn't trust anyone in this city.

“And here I thought you'd never arrive!” Dorian's voice rose above the clatter of the procession, and a moment later his horse came to a trot beside his. “Finally in the Imperium, Cullen. I think there will be fewer marriage proposals than Orlais.”

“We can only hope,” Cullen agreed, his sour tone not quite matching how he felt. Dorian was a pain—but he was an old friend, and likely the only one in this blasted country who was happy to see him. “Somehow, I don't imagine an ex-templar is exactly what power-hungry mages look for as a husband.”

Dorian laughed, shaking his head. “Don't sell yourself short, Commander. You'd be surprised how many mages would go for that. Allure of danger, and all that. It's certainly worked in your favor before.” The words were barely out of lips before he saw his grip on the reins tighten. “Cullen, wait, you know I didn't mean it like that--”

“It's fine,” Cullen said, though he was noticeably tense. “She's nearly a decade dead. Besides,” a small smile played over his lips, “she would have loved the joke.”

A lengthy silence fell between them as the procession continued down the street. They were approaching the Embassy where they would stay. It would be a brief stop there to shed most of their baggage, then immediately to the Senate, where the first day of deliberations would begin. He had no illusions that any treaties would be signed today. Josephine's assistant had briefed him that, as a formality, the first week was almost exclusively trivial matters and introductions. They would likely try to throw a ball or two, and he was to graciously accept the first one, and turn down the second. For appearances, it was explained. Then they could get down to the meat of it.

It was Dorian who finally broke the silence. “Eight years already. I still sometimes forget, and start to write a letter to Skyhold, only to stop halfway through her name.” He paused, waiting for Cullen to say something, but when he didn't, he asked, “How are you holding up?”

“It's hard,” Cullen admitted. “I forget sometimes, too. I roll over in bed and expect to find her beside me.” He took a slow steady breath, closing his eyes. He didn't need to start sobbing in the middle of the streets. Finally, he said, “I'm coping.”

“Aren't we all,” Dorian agreed.

The Embassy was a large stone building with a crumbling facade, but it looked structurally sound overall. Not likely to withstand a siege, but it wouldn't come falling down about their ears. It was not something he could say about every building in Minrathous. The Embassy had been converted from a magister's mansion, by the looks of it. Most of his retainer tucked into what had likely been the servants' quarters, while Cullen himself was escort up the stairs to a large bedroom. He didn't take much time to observe the gaudy décor, instead heading back down to the foyer to rejoin Dorian.

“Not wasting any time I see,” Dorian commented as Cullen descended the stairs. “Well, you'll find you're the only one in the Imperium like that.”

“Maybe our negotiations will include faster turnaround times on policies.”

Dorian shook his head. “I think we'll sooner eradicate blood magic than make the Magisterium do its job.” He gestured to Cullen out the door, and the commander followed. “Naturally, I'll be your guide through the Minrathous. Come, we'd better hurry to the Senate. The sooner this is started, the sooner it's over.”

Outside a carriage waited with fresh horses. Dorian got in first, followed by Cullen. Inside, the seats were grossly overstuffed, and gauzy curtains hung over the windows, making it stifling. Dorian seemed not to notice, instead rapping on the glass pane between him and the driver and directing him, “Senate, please.” The carriage lurched forward a moment later, and Cullen strained to remember the last time he had ridden anything other than horseback. Carriages were popular among ambassadors and nobles, but he often rode at the front of the procession when the Inquisition traveled. Josephine insisted it was because it conveyed strength, but Cullen suspected that she merely enjoyed flaunting him in front of all Orlais.

The ride to the Senate was short, but uncomfortable. In addition to the heat, there were patches of street where the cobblestone had eroded, leaving the carriage to bump and jostle along. He hit his head on the roof of the car twice, wincing as it caused his headache to flare and ache again. By the time they reached the Magisterium, it was worse than when he had been entering the city.

Dorian made quick work of waving away the carriage and leading him to the Upper Senate. Cullen was vaguely aware that a lower chamber existed beneath the Magisterium, but his briefings had assured him that he only need be concerned with the magisters. With them, all the power of the Imperium lay.

The chamber of the Upper Senate was a massive circular room with tables and benches arranged in stacked rings rising up from the floor. The higher the seats went, the shabbier they became, indicating magisters with less importance. Some had already taken seats, but many were mingling on the floor, a smooth sheet of black marble veined with gold. Dorian guided him down the steps of the Senate, pointing out key figures as he went.

“Over there, those are Venatori sympathizers. You'll want to avoid being alone with them, as they have a nasty habit of attempted assassinations. They'll likely also be the loudest in opposing committing any resources to the Inquisition.” He indicated next to a cluster of elderly men and women who had already taken seats. “Those are traditionalists. Not evil, per se, just unwilling to change. You'd have a hard time getting them to commit to any one side.”

They reached the floor, and the people parted around them like water, as if they were afraid to get too close. Danger by association. Most of the magisters averted their gaze, but some leveled disdainful stares, making Cullen's skin crawl. He knew the Inquisition was not popular in the Imperium, but he hadn't expected outright hostility. This... this was going to be more difficult than he expected.

Dorian continued the add commentary about a few magisters, throwing in bits of gossip as he led Cullen across the floor to their seats along the first ring. Cullen felt as if he were walking to the gallows, but held his head high regardless. They nearly made it across the sea of villainous black capes and tacky goatees when a voice halted them in their tracks.

“Dorian! Dorian Pavus! Were you going to walk right past me and not even introduce the Commander of the Inquisition?” A woman with short blond curls pushed her way through the crowd, shouldering more than a few disgruntled magisters out of the way. For a sickening second Cullen's heart lurched, until she reached them and he saw her face. _Not her. Maker, not every woman with curly blond hair is her, Cullen._

The woman wrapped Dorian in a bone-crushing hug, before pulling back and turning to Cullen. “And this is our Commander, is he not?”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian grumbled, fixing his clothing with exaggerated exasperation. “Commander Cullen, this is Maevaris Tilani. Mae, this is Cullen Rutherford.”

Mae took Cullen's hand, shaking it warmly. “Wonderful. Simply wonderful. I've had some contact with your Lady Ambassador, and I think we can make some headway in the Senate. After the festivities, of course,” she rolled her eyes, “there's no skipping those, unfortunately. Still, I daresay we shall make some waves with you presence in the Imperium. And, quite frankly, it's about damn time. Dorian and I have been working with the Lucerni for years now, and we've gotten almost nowhere.”

“I, er—I thank you for your faith, Magister Tilani,” Cullen said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mae waved her hand dismissively. “Mae, please. All my friends call me Mae.” A loud bell chimed suddenly throughout the room, causing Cullen to glance around. “That's the bell for everyone to be seated,” Mae explained. “Follow Dorian—I'll catch up with you both afterwards.”

Cullen nodded, and Dorian and Mae exchanged brief farewells before Dorian ushered him to a nearby bench. Two nameplates were engraved on the table in front of them, one reading “MAGISTER PAVUS” and the other “LIASON TO THE INQUISITION.”

“They didn't even both to get one with your name,” Dorian commented, his lip curling. “It's about as subtle as the slights come here. Someone is saying you're replaceable.”

The session began with a role call, in which each magister stood and stated their name and house, starting from the inner rings and working out. It gave Dorian a chance to point out more friends and foes.

“Don't worry about anyone beyond the third ring,” he murmured. “They don't have enough clout to get you anywhere, even if you put all of them together. They're outcasts.”

“Aren't you and Mae a bit of outcasts?” Cullen shot back.

Dorian smiled. “Yes, but we're powerful outcasts. That makes all the difference here.” He nodded to a woman on the other side of the first ring with a thick veil secured by a clip in her curling auburn hair. “Take her, for example. I daresay she's even more widely disliked than I am.” The unspoken 'and that's saying something' lay between them. “But she's one of the most powerful mages in the Imperium, so she sits at the first ring.”

Cullen studied the woman for a moment, processing what Dorian had said. She wore black robes, like most of the magisters, long-sleeved and flowing, but one of her arms was covered entirely in a large plate gauntlet. The veil obscured the entirety of her face, making it impossible to guess her age, but she held herself like a matriarch. Every few seconds, she would thrum a few metal-clad fingers on the table, and then whisper something to the elven man who stood behind her in waiting. Finally, he asked, “Why is she so hated?”

“Because she's a bastard,” Dorian said. “Her mother was a magister who studied in Rivain for years before she died. She was her only daughter, by way of a Rivaini seer. Her very presence is seen as an insult to the purity of the Magisterium.”

“What is her name?”

“Aethesia Vitellius. Though most people call her The Machinist.” Cullen shot Dorian a curious look, and he continued, “Politer company will say it's because of her Orlesian education, that she manipulates the Senate like a machine, but the reality is less pleasant. Do you see her veil?”

Cullen nodded. “What about it?”

“Rumor has it that while she was studying, she ran across a dragon. The beast all but roasted her alive, leaving her scared and disfigured. They say she had to replace all of her limbs with metal contraptions to walk. Some say more than her arms and legs.”

Cullen's eyes lingered over her arm, with the giant metal sleeve. Her fingers tapped on the table so delicately he never would have thought it could be anything other than flesh, but the only skin on her that lay exposed was the white stretch of her neck before is disappeared under the lace edge of her veil.

“Why is she not part of your Lucerni?” Cullen had read the reports, the list from Dorian about who could be expected as allies in Tevinter—his so-called “Lucerni,” which moved to temper to pro-Venatori currents in the Imperium. There was no Aesthesia Vitellius on the list.

“That's why.” Dorian indicated the elven man standing behind her. “She's one of the largest slave owners in Minrathous. And judging by the rate at which she buys them, she's involved in blood magic. A lot of it. There's hardly an auction where one of her servants isn't present.” Dorian sounded as if he tasted something sour. Cullen admitted, the feeling was mutual.

The meeting dragged on from there. Mostly, it was pomp and ceremony, about how grateful they were to have such an esteemed member of the Inquisition in their humble city, about how they hoped he would find the accommodations to his satisfaction. After nearly every magister in the room had given a small speech, they move on to discussions of a celebration to formally welcome the Inquisition. A few ideas were tossed around, a banquet, a festival, but they finally settled on a ball, much to Cullen's chagrin. He didn't dance, and he most certainly didn't mingle. Not with blood mages and cutthroat politicians.

After that, they stopped talking about him, so he lost interest. He knew Josephine's assistant was somewhere, taking copious notes, so he didn't bother pay attention. It was Imperium business, the trivial affairs that they could let a foreign power hear about. How well the war is Seheron was going (a lie) and the great restoration efforts that were taking place across the city (an exaggeration). Cullen tried not to close his eyes and hoped the posturing would pass quickly.

The session took a recess an hour after midday, and Cullen took this as an opportunity to slip away and stretch his legs. After a quick word to Dorian, he headed up and out of the Senate chamber, making for some gardens he had seen on his way in. The stone walls kept the hallways cool, and it was bliss to be out of the room of a few hundred people. He should have changed out of the armor at the Embassy, put on something lighter. The day was only getting warmer, and he was certain his tunic would be drenched by the end of the day.

He tried to retrace his steps, but the corridors were a maze of dark stone. Every corner looked like the last, down to the sconces. He counted the turns he took, but soon he became convinced he was traveling in a circle. A chime sounded at some point, but the halls were empty and he had no one to follow back to the Senate chamber. Maker, this was embarrassing. Dorian would never let him hear the end of it, assuming he somehow managed to get back before a disgruntled magister found him alone.

“Are you lost, mister?”

A voice jarred him from his thoughts, and he turned to see a little girl standing at the far end of the hallway. His heart lurched at the sight of her. She couldn't have been older than ten, with big brown eyes and gentle blond curls. Her dress, a little purple satin thing, was expensive in embroidery and lined with tiny amethysts around the collar. But what stopped him was the cupid's bow of her lips. Small and pouting, young as she was, he couldn't look at her and not see it.

 _Mal_. God, she looked just like her.

“ _Tell me about yourself. Before the Inquisition.”_

_She smiled, a little draw of a cupid's bow. “What, you mean when I was running around and shitting in the woods as a fugitive? Or when I was locked in a gilded cage?”_

“ _Whatever you want to tell me about. Anything about you. Anything that's true.”_

_She tapped her chin thoughtfully, before agreeing. “Alright. I'm from Ostwick, right? Well, they didn't figure out I was a mage until I was about seven or so—late bloomer and all that. So before that, I lived with my family. I had three brothers and one sister, who was younger. Her name was Adelaide, but we called her Addy.”_

“ _What happened to her?”_

_She shrugged. “Married off. To a guy in Tevinter, I think? I don't know. They stopped sending me mail after the first couple of months. It was kind of a scandal, having a mage in the family. Until they contacted the Inquisition, I hadn't heard from them at all.” He thought she might look sad, but she offered a little smile. “Nobles, am I right?”_

“I said,” the girl repeated, “are you lost?”

Cullen blinked, pulling himself from the whirlpool of his memories. “I, ah—yes. Yes I'm lost. Can you show me back to the Senate chamber?”

The girl looked him over skeptically. “You're not a magister. It's magisters only in the Senate.”

Cullen smiled. Even her attitude was like Mal's. “You're right, I'm not a magister. I'm from the Inquisition. I'm representing them in the Senate.”

The girl's face screwed up a little. “My teacher said the Inquisition should have been demolished years ago. She says you're nothing but a would-be Imperium.”

Cullen's good-natured smile faltered. Was she a magister's apprentice? At her age? A magister not fond of the Inquisition, at that. “Well, we're working on it. Would you please show me to the Senate?”

After a moment more of sizing him up, the girl nodded, and turned back down the corridor. “This way. Don't be slow.”

He followed quickly after the girl, who set a surprisingly fast pace. She wasn't quite the same as Mal, he decided. There were a few things that were off—her hair fell more in waves than tight ringlets, and he eyes were more honey-colored. He couldn't decide if the soft slope of her nose was different, or just still in the process of forming. He retracted his estimate from earlier—she had to be a few years younger than ten.

They rounded a final corner, and suddenly the door to the Senate chamber opened up before them, including a concerned Dorian and Maevaris hovering by the entrance.

“Cullen!” Dorian exclaimed the moment he saw him. “I thought some magister had nicked you already! Where were you?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I got a little lost on the way back, but then this little girl showed up--”

“Girl?” Maevaris asked. “A little girl?” She and Dorian exchanged concerned glances. “Seven years old, pretty blond hair?”

“Yes—how did you know that?” Cullen glanced between the two of them, brow furrowed. “What aren't you two telling me?”

Dorian took Cullen by the shoulder. “What did you say to her? I need to know exactly what you said to her.”

“Just that I was part of the Inquisition, and that I needed to find the Senate--”

Both Dorian and Mae visibly relaxed. “Good, good. That's fine.” He let go of Cullen's arm, which he had gripped with surprising strength. “That little girl is Tessaeris, The Machinist's apprentice,” he explained, “and she's the most powerful bloodmage I've ever met.”


	2. Chapter 2

_"Marry me."_

_He watched her breath hitch and catch in her throat. "What?"_

_"I mean—Maker, I meant it to sound better than that, just--" He took a deep breath. "Mal Trevelyan, will you marry me?"_

_She stared at him for what felt like an eternity. A thousand emotions played over her features, too quick to discern one from another. When she turned away from him, he finally decided what they all had in common: fear._

_"Why do you have to push things like this?" Her voice was tight, angry. She wouldn't quite look at him._

_"Mal, I didn't mean--"_

_"You just command it. 'Marry me.' Why? Dammit, isn't it enough that I love you? Are you going to make me say it every day for the rest of my life?" She pinched the bridge of her nose and flinched away when he tried to draw her into his arms._

_"Nevermind, Cullen. I have to meet Josephine before the peace talks."_

_"Mal, wait. I just slipped up--"_

_"We'll talk about it later, Cullen. Just... just not right now."_

Cullen often found himself slipping back into memories of her when everything stilled. Sometimes they were the happier ones, the ones where she leaned close and whispered sweet words to him and he held her late into the night, the only anchor in a sea of nightmares. But more often than not, it was that last day. He could still see her, feel the weariness in her walk. She had never enjoyed the burden of command, but in her last days it had loomed over her like an exectioner's axe. And in the end, it had taken her.

He would not forgive the Inquisition for what it did to her, yet at the same time he could not bear to see everything she had worked for crumble to ruin. So he worked in the same tower where they had once slept, curled into one another, and he ate where they toasted to victory, and most of all he remembered. She was carved into every inch of Skyhold, sunk into its skeleton, and when he listened hard enough, he could catch a fragment of her breath on the wind that sighed through the garden.

All his dedication, and it had landed him in Tevinter with a little girl who laughed like her and just so happened to be a blood mage. The thought made his stomach churn. A child, corrupted so much, so young. She may have been a ghost of Mal, but he could not wash that reality from his mind. Seven years old, and a blood mage.

And he knew exactly who was responsible.

Cullen pulled himself from the bath and toweled off quickly. Someone had laid out formalwear for the ball on his bed. It was a different cut than what they wore to Orlais, darker, and more asymmetric, after the Tevinter style. The silk was a deep red, with onyx buttons and gold trim. He dressed quickly, not caring to linger on his appearance. If the choice were his, there would be no ball, but he hadn't found a way to get out of it. So he would use it to his advantage as much as he could.

Dorian was an excellent source for gossip, but he had little hard fact. Moreover, he was bound by his rank and certain formalities that came with it. Cullen was under no such obligation. He could dig for information until his heart's content, especially if it would give the Inquisition an edge in negotiations. That was what he told himself, anyway.

When he emerged from his room, Dorian was waiting for him in the foyer. "Ah, good. You're ready. We'll need to do a little debriefing before you're thrown to the sharks." He paused. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."

Cullen raised an eyebrow. "Metaphorically thrown to the sharks, or metaphorically debriefed?"

"Both, if you're not careful," Dorian replied, leading him to a side room where Mae and a handful of other magisters were waiting. Cullen recognized them as the Lucerni. "Any of the people in this room are designated friends of the Inquisition. If you plan to go wandering off, I highly suggest taking one of them with you."

He settled into a seat across from Mae, and Cullen did the same, quickly scanning the faces in the room to memorize them.

"We don't know why The Machinist or Tessaeris are targeting you," Mae admitted, "but I doubt that run-in earlier was accidental. It's best that you keep safe. She's got that name for more than one reason, and it's not because she likes to tinker."

Dorian picked up a wooden box from a side table and began to pass it around. One by one, each magister took a crystal, until there was only one left for Cullen. "These are for communication. If you get caught in a tight spot, just send out the word, and we'll be there as fast as we can."

Cullen rolled the chunk of crystal in him palm, glancing between all the mages in the room. "Aren't any of you in danger? You are helping the Inquisition, after all."

Dorian practically laughed. "Of course we're in danger. The difference is, we were born here. The peril of the Magisterium is nothing new to us. You, well," he shrugged, "for all intents and purposes, you were born yesterday."

Cullen scowled, but he couldn't exactly argue. Instead, he pocketed the crystal and asked, "What else do I need to know?"

They covered over a dozen topics: food etiquette, dancing, what was normal small talk, what was someone digging for information. It was like Orlais all over again, but ever custom was inverted and laced with overt danger. Don't take any drinks from so-and-so, don't wander away from the crowd, don't stand anywhere too crowded. It was a maze of protocols and conditionals.

"And finally, you're allowed to carry a sword with you. I would recommend you not, but seeing as you'll probably ignore that advice," Cullen shot Dorian a pointed look, "just know that someone will likely try to start a duel, especially if you give them any reason to think you have slighted them. Don't accept. There's nothing they can do if you don't accept. Except, well, maybe poison you, but nothing they can do legally."

"Understood," Cullen replied.

"Good," Dorian said, rising and clapping his hand together. "You're set then. Hold on to that crystal, and remember every single thing I've just told you, and you should be fine. Now come along. We have a ball to attend."

 

 

After a day in the Imperium, Cullen had to say the word that best described it was _gaudy_. He thought the black marble coliseum that was the Senate had been over the top, but compared to the ballroom, it was downright humble. Every column was elaborately carved and draped in gold cloth, and the band floated ethereal atop a platform in the center of the room, supported only by slender carved staircases that wound up to them. Someone had hired acrobats who swung from alcove to alcove, never so much as nearing the ground. A fountain of what looked like liquid gold gushed at one end of the room, and in other locations stone women with porcelain jugs poured streams of wine. Over a hundred people glided about the room, decked in fine silks and laden with jewels. Cullen wasn't sure how any of them could have considered fighting a duel.

Dorian peeled away from the group shortly after arriving, making his way to a cluster of magisters across the room. "Networking," Maevaris explained. "Don't worry—I won't leave you to drown just yet."

It didn't take long for the Magisterium to notice their arrival. Within in minutes, mages in audaciously designed dresses and suits made their way to him, hoping to exchange a word or two. Some men shook his hand. Nearly all the women held out their hands to be kissed, which he decided was somehow a slight, based on the way they smirked. Most didn't stay long, only hoping to throw in their name and a small jab or two. Maevaris's presence seemed a good deterrent against the more pushy guests, while his own overwhelming lack of charm took care of the rest. They came for a show, a dancing Inquisition soldier, and only got curt answers and polite replies.

After an hour and a half, the flow of magisters ebbed, until he was yet another face in the crowd. Mae patted him on the back goodnaturedly.

"There, see? The hard part's over. Now you just have to avoid dying for the rest of the night, and you'll be fine. Now, if you'll excuse me--"

Cullen blanched. "Where are you going?" He wouldn't admit it, but he felt much more comfortable with the kindly magister watching his back.

Mae smiled, and he thought it suited her. "I'm just going to check out the food. I'll be back before you know it." She winked, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Cullen felt like he was sinking already.

_I don't know how you did this, love. You hated Orlais just as much as I did, and you somehow charmed the entire court while taking down a duchess at the same time. I wish I had your strength._

Something in his chest clenched. He had avoided balls for years, assuring Josephine that no one would miss him. Every time the music swelled, he felt the press of her hand in his, the curve of her waist. She would bury her face in the crook of his shoulder and breathe hot on his neck. She was warm and open and honest, never hiding, just feeling. Her heart, pressed against his heart.

"Daydreaming, Commander?" The smooth Rivaini accent rolled off him, causing him to look up sharply. Aethesia Vitellius was taller than he expected, but he supposed she could be however tall she wanted with mechanical legs. Her auburn hair was pulled up and spilled down her back in a mass of curls, and she had exchanged her thick veil for a hammered metal mask reminiscent of Orlais.

"Magister Vitellius," he greeted her. "I did not see you arrive."

He imagined she was smiling beneath her mask, a tight cheshire grin. For the first time he saw her eyes, little chips of gold behind the edges of her mask. "I imagine not. Forgive me, Commander. I'll leave you to your thoughts."

She turned to leave, the gauzy train of her dress swirling around her legs, but Cullen caught her by the arm. He felt her tense, as if waiting for a fight. _Remember, you need answers_. "Magister Vitellius, would you care to dance?"

Aethesia faltered, and something akin to fear seemed to flit through her eyes. But then she relaxed, little lines crinkling around her eyes as she smiled. "I thought you'd never ask, Commander."

They took a position on the floor, his hand resting lightly on her waist. He tried not to think about the last time he had danced with a woman, how he had been madly in love with her and it was the only reason he even considered it. Now, clasping hands with a blood mage in a bid to fish for information, it felt like a betrayal.

The music began, and he did his best to mirror Aethesia's movements. The differences from Orlesian dancing were subtle, but definitely there. If he didn't focus, he would lose the rhythm, and make a mess of things in front of the entire Magisterium. Somehow, he didn't think that would endear them.

"Are you married, Commander?" Aethesia asked. "I noticed the ring on your finger."

Cullen struggled not to look at his feet. "Widowed," he said curtly.

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that." For a moment, he thought the sympathy in her voice might be genuine. "What was she like, your wife?"

Cullen hesitated, thinking a moment. How much was known in Tevinter about his relationship with the Inquisitor? Would it been seen as weakness to still grieve a dead lover? Mal had been too big for words, mixed up with a thousand sunlit moments and harsh battles and lightning-split skies. Every song they sang and praise they called never touched her, the person she was, the storm-kissed titaness.

"She was radiant," he said finally.

A silence hung in the air, and it would have been awkward but for the music and the steps. Instead he found it almost amicable, leading him to ask, "And yourself, Magister Vitellius? Are you married?"

She laughed, threw back her head and laughed, a crisp, bitter sound. "No, no I'm not married. That sort of thing doesn't agree with me. Though," she shot a glance across the room, and Cullen followed her gaze to an elven man who stood to the side of the dancers, "if rumors are to be believed, I'm screwing my elven servant." She shot him a curious glance. "Do you believe in rumors?"

Cullen felt himself begin to redden at the sudden change of topic. "It depends on the rumors, I supposed, Magister Vitellius." He added the title almost as an afterthought, something to distance him and her.

"A wise stance, Commander. I wish more in the Imperium thought like that."

The music continued to swell, leading them through a series of elaborate spins. Aethesia was a natural partner, leading him graciously through the steps without so much as a word. They moved in silence as Cullen juggled the dance and what the magister had told him. Rumors—that was what Dorian had framed everything about her as. Rumors that she was scarred beyond recognition, rumors that she was more metal than human, rumors that she was a blood mage. It was all speculation—but if she were to believed, few were true.

Why would she say that, unless it was for a reason? She had to have known what gossip circled Minrathous—what did she have to gain in discouraging them? Did she want to dissipate malicious lies, or lure him into some false sympathy? If she thought he could be so easily beguiled into trust after a few kind words about a dead lover and a dejected comment on how misunderstood she was, Magister Aethesia Vitellius had more work to do. He came for answers, and if he had to trap her in her lies to find them, so be it.

"Magister Vitellius," he said, breaking the silence. "Would you like to play a game?"

Her eyes twinkled behind the mask, somewhere between mirth and suspicion. "What kind of game would you like to play?"

"A rumors game. I tell you a rumor I've heard, and you tell me whether or not it's true. Then we switch." The violins sang, and Cullen pulled her into a tight twirl. He was banking on her not knowing many rumors about the Inquisition, and himself specifically. "So? Do you agree?"

She seemed to mull over it for a moment, pulled close enough to his chest that he could feel her breath. "On one condition," she said. Cullen inclined his head, indicating for her to go on. "You have to call me by my name. No more of this 'Magister Vitellius' after every third word."

Something about her tone made him hesitate, as if there was some hidden danger in the syllables. He had been hiding behind a formality, true, but that was little more than a safety in dangerous waters. If he wanted to interrogate her about her personal life, he had bigger things to worry about than a breach in formality.

"Alright, Aethesia," he said. "Shall you ask the first question, or shall I?"

He could have sworn he saw disappointment in her eyes, but she replied without missing a beat. "Go ahead, Commander. I want to know what you've heard about me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More allusions to the Inquisitor, and a fancy ball (everyone's favorite). I'm really enjoying fleshing out the Tevinter Imperium from what little canon lore there is, and I imagine it to be just super over the top. Oh, and you can definitely expect a duel before the end of the night.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Your comments and kind words mean so much to me and help me to write that next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

"Tell me, Aethesia. Is it true you fought a dragon while in Orlais?"

Of all the questions he could have asked, it seemed the softest, and therefore the best place to start. Cullen needed to test the waters, see that she was committed to this before he laid all his cards on the table. The trouble was that, for every question, every rumor, he exposed himself. It was just as much about finding her secrets as it was ferreting his away.

The music rose as Aethesia took her sweet time answering. It occurred to him that he had not specified the terms of the game—whether she could say no and then turn around and ask him about Inquisition battle strategies. Was he in over his head?

She looked so unimposing, less like a maleficar and more like any other noble at court. The heavy fur draped around her shoulders buried her neck and obscured most of her torso, making her look like a child wrapped in a blanket. His thoughts immediately flicked to Tessaeris—where was she, in all of this? Everything was all mixed around; a magister who looked like swaddled infant and a child who held the power of a blood mage.

"I did fight a dragon in Orlais. And I won. I keep the head over my mantlepiece." The song shifted, and the steps changed pace, suddenly quicker, more elaborate. "My turn, then?" Aethesia asked without missing a step.

"Ask away," Cullen replied.

It was the wrong thing to say. "Describe the nature of your relationship with the last Inquisitor, Lady Trevelyan."

Aethesia took a step, but Cullen didn't follow, tripping over his own feet and struggling to find the melody again. When he spoke, his voice came out with a tremor. "What? What did you just say?"

His misstep didn't seem to phase her, and she countered his fumble easily. "I said, describe the nature of your relationship with Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan."

Cullen's heart was a lead weight in his chest. "That's not a specific rumor," he said weakly.

Aethesia rolled her shoulders, nonchalant. "Fine. Is it true that you and the Inquisitor were romantically and sexually involved?"

 _Maker_. It had never been a secret that they were an item, but it had become a less popular topic for gossip after her passing. Rumors about their engagement had circled profusely, surely making their way to the Imperium. It was no secret, nothing that needed to be confirmed. This was not an innocent inquiry. This was a jab.

Suddenly, Cullen knew why Dorian had warned him about magisters trying to egg him into a duel.

"I loved her. I hope she loved me." He took a breath to steady himself. No more testing the water. "People say you lost your legs in a fire, and had them replaced with metal ones. They say that's why you're called the Machinist."

She seemed to consider that one carefully, leaving Cullen to try and puzzle out her thoughts from what little he could see of her. For all she did to conceal her face, her eyes were so expressive. In the span of a few short songs he had learned to interpret the crinkle at the corners of her mask and the fleeting sidelong glances. She had spent so long behind a veil, it was as if she never bothered to mask her expression anymore.

"That's a fun one, I have to admit, but you fumbled on the wording. I have both my legs. I'll hitch up my skirt for you, if you'd like to see. Is it true that she left you when you tried to propose to her?"

This time, Cullen was a little more prepared. "Mal was—tempestuous. The first time I asked her, I think she was scared. It was such a big commitment, and I think it made her feel trapped. But she didn't leave me, not forever. Before... Before she left the Winter Palace for the last time, she took the ring, and promised we would get married in a little Chantry when she got back." His words trailed off, and he realized he had said too much.

"It sounds as if you really did love her," Aethesia said after a long silence.

"As much as she would let me," Cullen replied. "Was your father a Rivaini seer?"

She shook her head. "Elven, from the Free Marches. But I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't spread that information around the Magisterium, though. The only thing worse than being a bastard is being an elven bastard." One song bled into another, and Aethesia seemlessly changed her steps to match, bumping his foot with hers to indicate to widen his stance. She wasn't graceful, not really, but rather rehearsed. It looked as if she had done the steps so often that it was second nature.

"Did you even look for your love's body before you pronounced her dead?"

"Excuse me?" Cullen faltered again, but she adjusted without a word. How much did this woman know? It was one thing to be aware of rumors, but how did she know about Mal's body? Did she have informants at Halamshiral? Within the Inquisition itself? "I don't see how that's any of your business, how I dealt with my wife's corpse--"

"But she wasn't your wife, was she? You said you were getting married after, which obviously never happened. Unless you put the ring on her rotting finger? Do you keep what remains of her in your bed, to hold at night?"

"How dare you? Who are you to—to slander my wife?" She was going too far. It was one thing to ask about their relationship, but this? She was goading him, and even as he realized it he felt himself playing right into her hand.

"Are you angry now? Are you listening?" Her grip on his hand tightened unbelievably, until he couldn't pull away if he tried. "You're in danger every second you stay in the Imperium. If I can get a rise out of you by mentioning the Inquisitor, what do you think someone who's really trying can do?"

Cullen bristled. "I can handle--"

"I said _listen_. Do you see the man with golden feathers about his waist?" She didn't wait for him to say yes. "He's been following you all night. He's planning to kill you. Did you even notice?"

Cullen shot a glance over her shoulder, and sure enough, there was a man with jeweled feathers adorning his hips, circling the floor with his partner a few feet away. "That doesn't prove he's here to kill me."

Aethesia rolled her eyes behind her mask. "Of course it does. That's how it _works_ in the Imperium."

"How do I know you aren't trying to kill me?" he shot back.

"You don't," she said. "But I assure you, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have to do anything but wait."

Cullen scowled. She had a point, but it didn't mean he trusted her. "What do you propose we do about our friend, then?"

"The next time he's behind me, I want you to push me into him," she said. "Yell, be angry, whatever you have to do to sell it. He'll challenge me to a duel for your honor. I'll handle it from there."

Cullen looked her over suspiciously. "You'll 'handle' it?" If she meant she would kill the man...

"Maiming only. Just enough to send a message."

"'Leave the Inquisition alone'?" he guessed. Aethesia nodded. "And what's in it for you? I thought you said we should have been disbanded years ago?"

"I did say that, didn't I? Oh well. Are you going to help me take care of this, or not?"

He didn't like the situation, not at all, and he especially didn't like Aethesia. Her smugness set his teeth on edge, but try as he might he couldn't parse out her stake in all of this. He was no Leliana or Josephine—the intricacies of political games were enough to make her head spin. And her? She was a wild card, aligned to no faction. Too much of an outcast for the Venatori, but the Lucerni wouldn't touch blood mages. She had no allegiances, which only made her dangerous. He need to know what she wanted. He needed more information.

"Take care of it," he said, and then shoved her as hard as he could.

She hadn't any time to brace herself, and ended up stumbling back, slamming painfully into the man with the gold feathers. _Yell, be angry, she said_. That much he could do.

"You have the audacity to insult not only me, but my wife?" His voice echoed across the ballroom, and the music abruptly cut out as a hundred magisters stopped to watch the unfolding scandal. "Have you no respect for the dead?"

Aethesia teetered dangerously in her heels, grasping desperately for the nearest noble to steady herself. "You would hear the truth and be offended by it, Commander," she sneered. The push had disheveled her, caused the fur about her shoulders to slip, revealing a long stretch of collarbone. "The Inquisitor was little more than a limp puppet, jerked around by your organization. You kissed the statue's feet and called it love." He wondered how much of what she said was what she really thought.

The man with the gold feathers stepped up without missing a beat. "Magister Vitellius, you disgrace the Magisterium with your inhospitality. I will not stand for it."

"Would you care to sit, then, Magister Aemillian? After all, you seem very fond of lazing about on your ass."

The man fumed, and it only further inflated his airs. "This is unacceptable, Magister! You insult everyone in this room with your behavior." Cullen saw it, in the way the man held himself. Braced, tense.

"Really? I only meant to insult _you_." A wide circle had formed around them, with Cullen at the fringes. Magisters pressed in, desperate to catch of glimpse without throwing themselves into the center. He had seen this before. They were waiting for a fight, and Magister Aemillian seemed only too happy to oblige.

"I will not tolerate your disrespect!"

"Then do something about it."

Aemillian drew first, his staff seeming to materialize from the air itself. Aethesia was a second ahead of him, slamming down a barrier in front of her that dissipated his fire harmlessly. She closed the distance between them in a blink, her staff appearing in the same breath. Aemillian was still struggling to conjure a fireball when she struck him, hard, with the blunt end of her staff. The blow sent him spinning, and the half-formed mass of flame exploded outward, throwing them both to the edges of the circle.

Aemillian recovered first, just in time to slam a shockwave through the marble that exploded at her feet. Aethesia braced herself, but it ripped through the remains of her barrier and sent her skidding across the floor. When she stopped, she did not move.

"Machinist, again your hubris is your downfall." Aemillian slowly collected himself, brushing the crumbling remains of the marble from his pants. He was favoring the side she had hit. "You would think one such as yourself would be more careful. Bastards have few enough friends in court." He nudged her limp form with his boot, the same as if she were an animal. He scooped up her staff, and idly thrummed his fingers along the shaft, as if considering how to dispose of her.

"The Imperium will be better off without another mutt."

Aethesia did not so much rise, but rather Cullen blinked, and then she was on her feet and holding Aemillian by his throat. The man wheezed, once, before she crushed his throat with the same hand that had clasped Cullen's.

"I despise men who monologue," she spat, and dropped his limp corpse to the ground. Cullen did not realize how silent the room had grown until the clatter of the man's jewelry echoed against the vaulted ceiling. At some point, he had stopped breathing.

She said she wouldn't kill him. She said it would have been a duel—but this, this was just a brawl. There was no challenge, no rules, only carnage. _This_ , he thought, _is a society where mages go unchecked_.

The crowd parted before Aethesia, who made quickly for the exit. A few servants hurried from the side of the room to collect the body, and almost as quickly as it formed, the crowd scattered. Magisters returned to mingling, sipping slender stems of wine as if a man's blood wasn't cooling on the marble. This was sport to them.

"Magister Vitellius!" Cullen called, pushing through the crowd. She couldn't have gotten far in this sea of people. He was going to find her and the truth, and he knew just how to do it. In his pocket, he felt the weight of the crystal Dorian had given him for communication. If he could slip it into her pocket, then he could use one from Dorian or Mae to spy on her. No more lies. No more games.

He caught her just outside the ballroom, where the night air was still thick and humid after the sunset. For the second time that night he grabbed her by the arm, and for a moment he thought her staff would swing for him next. "Magister Vitellius," he repeated.

"I thought we agreed that you would stop calling me that." Her tone was cool, level. It made his blood boil.

"And I thought we agreed that you wouldn't kill him," he snarled, spinning her to face him.

She was untroubled by his anger. "Things changed. He called me a bastard."

"You killed him because he called you a bastard?"

She shrugged. "Among other reasons." Her eyes flicked to his grip on her arm. "Now will you release me?" Aethesia leveled a piercing stare at him, but he did not flinch.

"No. I won't."

He needed an opportunity to slip the crystal into her pocket before she noticed. This dance of words was beyond his expertise, but raw intel, that he could work with. Aethesia was no more suspicious than any other magister, save for her apparent interest in the Inquisition. That she did not support the Venatori was one thing, but it did not eliminate her as a potential enemy. He remembered her apprentice's words, that the Inquisition had outlived its use. How did her warning him about a would-be assassin play into that? Had the magister even been gunning for him, or had she used him as a piece in ploy for more power in the Magisterium?

The tension hung palpable in the air as their eyes locked. She thought she could intimidate him, stare him down to obedience, but he was no dog. As her eyes narrowed, his grip on her arm grew tighter, until he was sure it would bruise. He might have felt bad, if not for the fact that he had seen her crush a man's throat a scant five minutes ago. She was more than strong enough to pull away from him, if need be. It was not about strength, but about willpower.

"You say your Inquisitor loved you?" she asked, eyes flashing. "You think she wanted you to have a long, happy life?" She ripped her arm backwards, forcing him to either let go or be dragged close enough to see the whites of her eyes. He held on. "Then get out of Tevinter. Leave. Send someone who's expendable to bother the Magisterium."

 _Now_. He was close enough that he could reach his pocket without her seeing. His fingers clasped around the crystal, and he fought to keep his eyes locked to hers as he spoke. "Tell me the truth, and I'll leave the Imperium." _There_. He settled the crystal into a deep fold of her dress, where it would be more or less secure.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, Commander," she said.

"There you are!" Dorian and Maevaris were hurrying out of the ballroom, obviously distraught. The tension broke, and Cullen released Aethesia, who took several steps back from him, restoring a respectful distance. "Well, you certainly know how to draw the attention of the entire ball," Dorian said, placing a hand on Cullen's shoulder. A gesture of solidarity. "Is everything alright?"

Cullen and Aethesia exchanged quick glances before she answered, "Of course, Magister. I was just going home. Your Commander was gracious enough to walk me out. Commander, Magisters." She gave a brief curtsy, then added, "Do consider what I've said, Cullen."

The three of them watched her retreating form until she reached the street and hailed a carriage. No one spoke until the wheels clattered away on the cobblestone. Finally, Cullen looked to Dorian. "We're going back to the Embassy. And I'm going to need your crystal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever find yourself reading a line and wondering, "Was that intentional?" the answer 9 times out of 10 is YES. Right now this is just as much a mystery to the readers as it is to Cullen, and I can't wait for you guys to piece it together way before him and rejoice in the dramatic irony.
> 
> Feel free to leave questions/comments, and if you have any particular scenes that you'd like to hear about between Cullen and the Inquisitor, let me know!


	4. Chapter 4

They sat in the parlor of his room at the Embassy, the crystal situated in the center of the coffee table. Dorian tried his best to look nonchalant, draped over the couch, but his eyes betrayed his worry. No one had spoken since the carriage ride home, making for a tense silence with little explanation, but Cullen had spent all night paying attention to courtesy and now he was done, consequences be damned.

After fifteen minutes, all that came from the stone was a faint rustling sound. Maevaris returned from downstairs with three goblets of water, which she passed around silently. Cullen left his on the table, untouched, next to the crystal.

Second thoughts were running through his mind. What if she noticed him slipping her the crystal and ditched it? Even if she hadn't, it was only meant for direct communication—would it pick up anything from inside her dress? It had been a slim gamble, but the best move he had at the time.

He wasn't cut out for this—this _subterfuge_. His trade employed more swords and fewer words, but he couldn't just sit by while a magister batted him around.

A faint thump emitted from the crystal, like a carriage door closing. A moment later, there was more rustling, and the muffled click of heels on stone. The three of them exchanged quick glances.

"Would you call the healer? Aemillian is a fool, but he knows how to swing a staff."

Aethesia's voice. A little faint, but there it was. They had an in.

Someone replied—probably the elf she kept with her—but the words were unclear.

"Thank you." The sound of crinkling fabric, like she was sitting down. "I know this evening wasn't fun for you either, but—oh. I didn't expect you to be home."

A new voice spoke this time—feminine—but again, the words were garbled. They were stuck with one side of the conversation.

"If you insist. I'm afraid it's only a few bruises." A pause, accompanied by softer footsteps, no heels. A servant? Someone else in the house? Cullen shot Dorian a look, but the man only shrugged.

The women settled into a comfortable silence, until the second voice piped up again.

"You shouldn't have let her stay up so late," Aethesia replied. "She'll be falling asleep in her morning lessons." Her skirts rustled again as she stood up, accompanied by the steady click of her shoes. The clink of glassware, then the sound of water. A long silence.

"Yes," Aethesia said finally. "I saw him and we—spoke. Briefly." She set the glass down, too hard, and it clanked loudly. "I know you asked me not to but—Maker, how could I not? After everything the Inquisition did? After everything he did?"

The second voice was rising, obviously upset. They were talking about the Inquisition and—him? He tried to remember if Aethesia had spoken to anyone else, but to be perfectly honest, he hadn't noticed her before she approached him. Still, paranoia aside, Cullen seemed the most likely _him_ , especially in relation to the Inquisition.

Maevaris was having similar thoughts. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed the word, "You?"

"Does it matter what we talked about? He's still some doe-eyed boy more in love with a symbol than a person. The sooner he gets out of Tevinter, the better." Aethesia sniffed, indignant. "Aemillian was eyeing him. I—handled it."

 _Murdered him_ , more like. But despite his bitter thoughts, Cullen felt unsettled. He had been in danger, after all.

If he was uncomfortable, the other woman was angry. As her voice grew louder, he could make out snippets of her words.

"—were you thinking? You could have been hurt!"

"I needed to act fast, alright? He was too easy to set off. He wouldn't have lasted five more minutes if I didn't do something."

"—didn't ask—protect--"

"Sorry, would you rather I let him die? Because that's what would have happened. Someone would have set him off, and he'd be bleeding out on the floor right now. Or worse."

A heavy silence fell between the two women. He could hear Aethesia's breath, slightly labored.

"This—about Aemillian, was it?"

Aethesia made a sound of disgust. "He kept saying 'wife.' Like he has any right--" She stopped abruptly, and her voice shifted so quickly it was startling.

"I'm sorry we woke you, sweet heart. We were just talking. If you go lay down, I'll come by to tuck you in soon."

 _The child_. Dorian's eyes widened, surprised. Cullen didn't know what he'd expected, but it hadn't been a loving home. He wasn't even sure those existed in Tevinter.

"Goodnight, Tess. We'll be there in just a moment."

A silence fell while the girl undoubtedly shuffled out of the room, at the end of which he could hear Aethesia audibly exhale.

"It's late. Can we pick this up in the morning? I'm sorry—about what I said."

The other woman was quiet again, her words lost between her and the crystal, but a moment later there were soft footsteps and the quiet brush of silk against linen. They must have been close—hugging, maybe—because he caught all of her words for the first time.

"I'm sorry too."

A moment passed, and despite having been eavesdropping for the better part of ten minutes, only then did he feel as if he were intruding. He had hoped for—what? Evil machinations? A declaration of her plan to dismantle the Inquisition in precise detail? Hell, he would have settled for knowing why she was targeting him, but what he got was...

 _Domesticity_.

The word made his chest ache, like there was a little piece that was missing. Marriage, children, intimacy—those were all past him. Even if the opportunity arose, he couldn't shake Mal's face from his memory.

"Hey," the woman said suddenly. "What's this in your pocket?"

There was a rustling, louder than before. He glanced quickly at Dorian, who seemed to be coming to the same conclusion he was.

His stint in espionage was coming quickly to a close.

Aethesia hissed. "Speaking crystal. Son of a--"

"Who slipped it on you?"

"Another magister, maybe, or--" She swore, loudly and colorfully. "Fucking Rutherford. Give it to me." There was a sharp, sudden sound, like the crack of stone, and then the crystal faded to a pale pink. The connection was severed.

For a long moment, they sat in silence. Dorian was obviously processing all this information, though there was an odd quirk to his expression, like—doubt? Cullen wasn't sure.

"Well," Mae said finally. "That was... _interesting_ , but I'm afraid it afforded us little concrete information. I could do some digging on my end, maybe come up with a few leads--"

"We should break into her mansion. Tonight."

Whatever thoughts had snared Dorian, that snapped him out of it. "What? Are you insane?"

"No, but look—she's bound to have something written down. She has a connection to the Inquisition. Me, specifically. I search her study, find some letters, see if we can't get anything more solid."

Mae and Dorian exchanged nervous glances, but something about his voice deterred them from immediately shooting him down. "Why tonight? We could wait, get one of Leliana's people on it..."

He shook his head. "No. As long as we're in the dark, we're in danger. This can't wait."

Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh. "Alright. But I'll have it known that I object profusely."

 

 

The air over the stone wall shimmered for a moment before the slightest line split the air and parted the shield like a curtain.

"For the record," Dorian said, one hand raised and illuminated with arcane power, "I still think this is a terrible idea."

"Noted," Cullen responded dryly. The moon was well past its zenith after the time it had taken to prepare for this espionage mission. If his ceremonial armor was uncomfortable, he felt naked in the leathers he had borrowed from one of Leliana's scouts. He had spent most of his life in heavy plate, but the clanking steel had no place in stealth. Even he knew that much.

Dorian shook his head, but didn't drop the spell. "Well, get on with it. You'll only have an hour or so before the staff starts waking up."

Cullen gave him a curt nod, and took the running start he needed to scale the wall surrounding Magister Aethesia's manse. He wasn't young anymore, and it took him a moment to pull himself over the edge. Still, he hadn't confined himself to a desk, so he managed to drop without hurting anything. If he were being entirely honest with himself, the field work was a refreshing change of pace, even if espionage wasn't exactly his forte.

Of course, Maevaris had suggested that they wait for more information. The Inquisition had people for these very purposes. But calling in scouts meant waiting, and—worse--involving Leliana. He liked the spymaster well enough and all, but she wielded secrets like a weapon and nowadays he wasn't entirely sure whose side she was on. A few years ago, it might have been a different story—he had never questioned her loyalty to Mal—but things had changed. His best bet was handling this himself.

The arcane curtain shimmered once again and then fell back into place, effectively sealing him in. The crystal weighed heavy in his pocket, his only connection back to Dorian and the relative safety of the streets.

 _Right, on with it then_. He made for the garden, as best he could tell. Whether Orlesian or Tevinter, nobility had an irritating fondness for ornate but useless flower collections. Fortunately they also came in conjunction with tall trellises, which were convenient for accessing second story windows.

The memory came to him involuntarily. The Winter Palace. Mal. Dorian at the base of the latice, charming nobles and desperately trying to draw attention away from the short human woman scrambling up the wall with the straps of her shoes between her teeth. Her feet shot out from beneath her half a dozen times, her ascent only further hindered by the swirling black and green silk of her skirts. He watched her from just beyond the doorway, marking her progress with sidelong glances, careful not to draw too much attention. He could still taste her in the back of his mouth, his tongue buried in her not fifteen minutes ago. He was intimately familiar with that dress, the weight of it on his back, the deep emerald swirled with black until it resembled the Breach itself. A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered the smell of her wet heat mixed with the perfume they had dusted between her thighs, musky and sweet.

Cullen forcefully shook himself from the memory and pulled himself up the trellis.

At the top, it was easy enough to pry open the window. Surprisingly, it was unlocked, with the top pane pulled down just enough to permit a breeze. Careful not to make a sound, he pushed up the bottom pane and pulled himself through the window.

The room was dark, but he expected that much. As he waited for his eyes to adjust, he took in his surroundings with his other senses. The manse was cooler inside than he expected, undoubedly enchanted. The scent of clean linens mixed with sweet flowers permeated the room. The world slowly returned to shades of blue and gray, and he began to pick up details of the room. A thick ornate rug covered the floor, shades of deep purple and pale green. A handful of chairs were clustered around a cold fire place, a forgotten tea cup left half-empty on an end table.

He stopped to peruse the half-dozen open tomes on a nearby desk, but found only passages about basic magic cantrips. A long piece of parchment trailed off the edge, covered in messy, loose handwriting. It took him a moment to decipher the words in the low light, but he finally parced out enough letters to recognize the rote copying of a school child.

The air around him seemed to chill as Cullen instinctively froze. His glance darted around the room, and sure enough, a child-sized bed was pushed against the far wall with a small lump centerd in the middle from which the soft sound of breathing emanated.

Ever so carefully, he crept across the room. The critical part of his mind said make for the door, that nothing he wanted would be in this child's room, yet he found himself approaching her bedside. Mal's face burned in his thoughts, blurred and weathered by the passage of time until he could not quite remember the shape of her lips. And yet there she was, so plainly in the girl's face. Her hair was not right—paler than it had any right to be and the wrong kind of curly—but she lived in the details: the shape of her eyes and the arch of her brow, how her jaw set while she slept.

Tessaeris wasn't Mal's daughter. He knew that, rationally. Even if she was old enough, Mal had spent most of her time after Corypheus at Skyhold. He would have noticed. As much as she hid from him about her past, he knew everything about her present.

But as hard as he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling in his gut when he looked at the girl, the little voice that said _run, run from this god-forsaken place and take her with you_.

With reluctance, he tore his gaze from the sleeping girl and made for the door. The hallway outside was wide and lined with doors. Dorian had said the study would most likely be on the second floor, assuming the house followed standard conventions of Tevinter architecture. His best bet was checking the doors one by one.

The first room, directly across from Tessa's bedroom, was a relatively plain parlor. Based on the simple decor, he guessed it didn't see much use. Nobility at its finest.

Down the hall, he found another bedroom, also dark, but currently uninhabited. Whoever lived there was incredibly cluttered. Scattered over every surface were scrolls and open tomes. Etched into the floor was a large circle, filled with concentric shapes and magic sigils. He had learned to recognize some spells after his time in the circle, but he had never seen anything this complex. Even with the room apparently empty as it was, the circle hummed with residual energy. Carefully, he edged around the circle, and made for some of the tomes. Fortunately, most all of it was written in common. He picked out half a dozen texts about illusory magic, and a few more about extended travel through fade step. Finally, there was a single passage not about magic, but advanced surgeries.

Blood magic. It seemed Dorian was right about the magister and her activities.

The scrolls were less intelligible, terse musings about theoretical magic. Most of it was beyond his knowledge, but he gleaned a few phrases from the mess of tangled sentences.

"The rituals practiced in Nevarra are of a different nature. While they focus primarily on the spirit, this phenomenon brings the body as well as the soul. I do not understand fully the timing of the phenomenon, but I have found no recorded instances of resurrections taking place more than half a day after the heart has stopped beating."

Necromancy. A shiver ran down his spine. Not only was Vitellius dabbling in blood magic, but she was reanimating corpses. Cullen snatched the parchment and rolled it, shoving the scroll in the satchel he had brought for this very reason. Dorian would know better what to make of this.

There were two more door at the end of the hall. On a whim, he picked the left.

The study was lined with large, east-facing windows, through which gray light was slowly filtering. The room was done in shades of gold and rose, with a thick carpet that completely muffled his footsteps. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase wrapped around the interior walls, filled with countless books and tomes on various subjects. He ignored them entirely, and made straight for the large wooden desk. Unlike the previous room, the handful of books on the desk were neatly stacked, accompanied by a trim roll of parchment, a quill set, and a wax seal. He went immediately for the drawers, yanking them pen roughly and sifting through the contents. Outside, he heard the soft sounds of a household waking up—a few minutes at best before his exit was entirely lost.

He found a handful of letters and stowed them in his pack. The bottom drawers were filled with miscellaneous items, carefully compartmentalized in glass jars—stones, dusts, thick viscous liquids. He tried each drawer in succession, but found fewer and fewer items that caught his interest. He was almost prepared to quit and make back for the trellis when he heard the telltale rattle from the bottom drawer as he closed it. It took a moment of groping blindly, but he managed to pry open the false bottom. His fingers brushed leather, and he drew out a soft, well-worn journal. He flipped quickly through the pages, just enough to know that he didn't recognize the language.

The soft sound of leather boots on marbled echoed outside the door. His eyes darted up to the door, then to the large windows on the other side of the room. Without another thought, Cullen made for the window, threw open the latch, and vaulted over the sill. Behind him heard the door swing open, and sharp inhalation of breath.

"Cullen."

He was already out the window.

As far as landings went, his could have been better, but he didn't have time to think about where he would be feeling it later. He immediately rolled into a sprint, fumbling to draw the crystal from his pocket before he reached the wall. Everything looked different in the daylight, making it difficult to remember where he had come in.

"Dorian," Cullen gasped into the crystal. "Get the barrier."

Half a second passed before Dorian's lilting voice returned across the line. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? There's some static on this end--"

"Split the barrier!"

"Oh, well, why didn't you just say so."

Cullen's eyes scanned the top of the stone wall, looking for the shimmer of purple. Somewhere inside the house a shout went up. Every second felt like an hour as he stared at empty sky, waiting for a signal--

 _There_. The faintest shimmering line split the air. Cullen kicked up dirt and stone trying to adjust his trajectory. He could already feel the ache building in his legs as he vaulted over the wall. His landing was messy, and felt something in his knee wrench. There wasn't any time to assess the damage, because Dorian was already pulling him to his feet. Just around the corner, a carriage waited for them, ready to make a hasty escape. Over the growing commotion, he heard the magister's voice, issuing hasty commands in Tevinter.

Dorian lent a shoulder to Cullen, helping take the weight off his knee as they hurried towards the street. Sure enough, the carriage lay in wait, though the driver looked more than a little startled when Dorian wrenched open the door and told him to drive.

The cab lurched into motion before they could even shut the door. _Good man_. The cushioned and curtained interior of the cab lent a false sense of security, yet Cullen found himself relaxing despite himself. Maker, he was getting too old for this.

But if Cullen was completely spent, Dorian was just getting started. “What did you find?” he asked, leaning across the bench. “Please tell me this wasn't all for nothing.”

Cullen breathed a heavy sigh, but tossed him the satchel. “Take a look.” As Dorian began rifling through the letters, Cullen leaned back in his seat, only to sit back up when he felt something stiff in the front of his jacket. The journal. What he'd risked life and limb to grab. While Dorian swore under his breath at the handful of parchments, Cullen withdrew the journal and began to slowly leaf through the pages.

The brown leather was old, made soft by the years and undoubtedly hours of writing. Pressed between the pages were an assortment of smaller parchments and dried herbs. Most of the papers were letters, written in different language but all by the same hand, but several contained scraps of drawings—faintly inked sketches of birds, marektplaces, and--

Tessa. More than a dozen, spanning over years. While the most recent drew her as she was now, others, earlier in the journal, depicted a baby, unrecognizable but for the caption on the back. Tessaeris, 3 months. Tessaeris, 10 months. Tessaeris, 14 months. Tessaeris, 2 years.

The pages themselves were unintelligible to him. Though the numbers scrawled at the top made him confident that this was some kind of diary, the language was one he did not recognize. Instead, he tried to pick out other details.

The script itself was small and uniform—different from the hand that wrote the letters, or the loopy scrawl in the empty bedroom. The entries had to go back at least six years, if the drawings of Tessa were any indication. Moreover, the pages were only writing—no sketches, no doodles—unlike every report Mal had ever sent in. Whoever wrote the journal didn't make the drawings.

Across the cabin of the carriage, Dorian was turning through the letters in quick succession, brow lined with worry. “This can't be right...”

Cullen caught a glimpse of the scroll he had snagged from the cluttered bedroom. “What is it?”

He shook his head, eyes still glued to the parchment. “The magic this describes... I've never heard of anything like it.”

“It's necromancy,” Cullen said, lip curling in disgust.

“No,” Dorian said. “That's just it—it's not. I know necromancy, but this... It's not even the same school. Look.” He held out the parchment for him to read. “See how they denote the incantation? The spell has a completely different root than what I use.”

Cullen inspected the paper, but it was little more than a handful of meaningless scribbles to him. “I'll take your word for it. Here,” he offered him the journal, “can you read this?”

Dorian set the scrolls aside and opened the leather book, eyes skimming quickly over the text. “If I had to guess, I'd say it's Rivaini. I could find a translator, or if you give me a few days, I could probably do it myself.”

Cullen nodded tersely. “Do it. The fewer people that know about this, the better.”

Dorian shot him a cursory look. “You know, you'll have to trust someone eventually.” He was obviously remembering Cullen's aversion to using Leliana's people. “Where did you find this, anyway?”

“Hidden in a desk in the study. Same room as the letters, different room from the scroll.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Where did you find the scroll?”

“A bedroom.”

“Aethesia's?”

Cullen shook his head. “I don't think so. The place was littered with papers and books, with this big circle etched into the floor.”

“A circle? Do you think you could draw it?”

“Not very well,” Cullen admitted. “I don't remember many details.”

“Damn. That could have been useful.” The carriage rounded a corner and began to to slow. Outside was the sound of a city waking up. A little pink light already bled through the curtains of the cab. “At any rate, I think our best bet is this journal.”

The carriage slowed to a halt, and the driver rounded the side to open the door. “Did you find anything in the letters?” Cullen asked as he stepped from the cab onto the flagstone outside the embassy.

“A little, but they were mostly business. I'll run them past Mae and see if she can pick up on anything.”

“Good. We can reconvene this afternoon to share what we've found.”

Dorian frowned. “Unfortunately, that won't work. You're expected at the Senate at noon.”

Cullen groaned. Of course. He'd nearly forgotten the actual reason he was here. “Tonight?” Cullen suggested.

“Tonight,” Dorian agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this for several months, mostly because certain aspects didn't sit right with me. Now that I've gotten most of the plot squared away in my head, I might post the few extra chapters I've written. As always, comments are appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

_Cullen rolled over in the middle of the night, only to find a cold bed beside him. After a few moments of blinking the sleep from his eyes, he managed to locate Mal, illuminated by faint candlelight as she leaned over her desk, frowning. She had pinned her hair up above her head, a look that was becoming more and more common. Her left hand pulsed a deep green even under the linen wraps, mixing with the warm candles and casting her features in a harsh light._

_"It's late, love." She jumped at the sound of his voice, looking up suddenly from whatever papers scattered her desk. "Come back to bed."_

_"Can't sleep," she explained. He could see the way she hid her hand behind her back, and didn't need to ask the reason. Even after the Breach was sealed, the mark had continued to trouble her. As of late it had grown worse, until he woke up in bed with her as often as not._

_It felt cruel, that as his pain ebbed, hers grew._

_He crossed to her and took her good hand in his, cupping her cheek with the other, hoping to convey in touch everything he couldn't say. Something must have gotten across, because she smiled, just a bit._

_"Come back to bed, Mal." He leaned in to kiss her, only for her to turn her head at the last moment. His lips found her cheek instead._ What--? _He followed her gaze to the empty vial on the table, a small ring of brilliant blue still lingering at the bottom. "Oh."_

_Since her mark started acting up, her lyrium ingestion had also increased. At first it was slight—she barely used the stuff before—but now... "How many is that today?"_

_She wouldn't look at him. "Three."_

_"Mal, you know what that stuff does--"_

_"I know."_

_He stopped short. They had been at this so many times already, he could already hear the arguments and counterarguments._

I'm a healer. I know what I'm doing.

Then you should know what too much will do to you.

Mages metabolize lyrium better than non-mages. I'm fine.

You're not fine, so stop pretending.

_No one could change her mind, least of all him. So he let it go. Instead, Cullen pressed a kiss to her forehead and drew her into his arms. She came easily enough, resting her head on his chest. Behind her, the mark glowed a dull green. Now that he was closer, he could smell the lyrium on her lips, metallic and slightly sweet. "Come back to bed."_

_He felt her nod slowly against his chest. "Alright."_

Cullen floated to consciousness, the world around him a strange mix of memories. It took him awhile to parce out what had been a dream and what was real. The bed beneath him, too soft. The noonday sun filtering through the windows, stained a deep purple by the gauzy drapes. Slowly, he counted his fingers, then his toes. His knee ached dully where he had twisted it that morning.

Awake. Alive.

Cullen pulled himself from the mess of sheets and scanned the room for a clock. An elaborate piece rested over the disused fireplace, its hands a steady tick-tick-tick. Good. He had a little time before he was due at the magisterium.

He combed through the events of his dream piece by piece. Not a memory, a _dream_. In reality, Mal had never come back to bed. Instead, like a fool, he had started down that path again.

_"You shouldn't take so much."_

_"It helps with the pain."_

_"You need to see a healer about the mark."_

_She shook her head. "I_ am _a healer."_

_"Mal, what if it doesn't stop? What if you lose your arm?" he asked._

_"Well, in my professional medical opinion, I'll be all right," she joked._

_"That's not funny."_

_"I thought it was hilarious."_

_"This is serious."_

_"You're right, it's seriously none of your business."_

_"None of my--? I love you, Mal."_

_"What does that have to do with anything?"_

_"It means I care what happens to you."_

_"And I don't? I don't care what happens to my body?"_

_"No, it's just--"_

_"Why do you have to control everything?"_

_"I'm_ not _, I just want you to be_ safe _."_

_"And what about what I want? Does that even matter? No, don't answer that." She breathed out a harsh breath. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back. Probably." He made to grab her arm, to stop her, to apologize, but she shrugged from his grasp._

_The door slammed behind her._

_A cold weight settled in his stomach._

In the end, she came back of course. She always came back. Whether it was for him or the Inquisition, he didn't know. But she came back, until the very end.

He felt a phantom chill run down his spine. _What if you lose your arm?_

 

 

Dorian found him before he could slip too far into what-ifs and could-have-beens. The magisterium waited. Work waited. Work kept him focused, kept him alive.

Alive. Awake.

He dressed quickly and met the others, Maevaris and a few other Lucerni, downstairs, limping only a little. His body was a patchwork of unstretched muscles and joints that hadn't been used practically in years. Like the day before, Dorian hailed a carriage, and they piled into the small cab. Dorian, Maevaris , and Cullen took one car, while the others flagged another. No one seemed to discuss the seating arrangements.

As the carriage lurched forward on its rickety path, Dorian drew the leather journal from inside his coat. "I've made some progress, but little of it is useful, I'm afraid."

Cullen shot him a curious look. "You didn't sleep?"

Maevaris and Dorian exchanged humored glances. "Ah, no. Thrill of academic inquiry and all that. _Anyway_ \--" He cracked open the journal, which now had additional scraps of parchment tucked into it. "It's a very rough translation, but I'm certain of a few things. One, this is most definitely Aethesia's journal."

Despite himself, Cullen drew a sharp breath. Of course the thought had lurked at the back of his mind, but it had seemed too good to be true. Life could not just be that _easy_. "What else do you know?"

"I know this journal goes back several years. Some of entries have months between them, but the first one, well, it starts something like this." He read from a scrap of paper inside the journal, "Dear diary, mother gave me this journal for my twenty-third birthday, so I might have something to do while bed-bound."

"How old is Aethesia now?"

"At a guess," Maevaris said, "somewhere between thirty and sixty."

" _Sixty_?" Cullen repeated. "How?"

"The records are spotty," Maevaris explained. "The Vitellius family studied in Rivain for generations—exiled, some might say. We have no idea where in the lineage she's from."

"Well, is there any way we can find out?" The thought occurred to him that she might be anyone. "Do we even know she is a Vitellius?"

Mae considered it. "The magisterium is quite thorough in its examination of lineages. She would have to go to extraordinary measures to fake her ancestry."

"I could pull some strings, see if I can't get a few moments alone in the record room," Dorian offered.

Cullen nodded. "That's a good idea." The more they knew about their enemy, the more leverage they had. At that moment, her plans were a mystery to them, leaving them to fumble in the dark. If they knew more about Aethesia—who she was, what she wanted--they had a chance to level the playing field.

"One more thing," Dorian said, shaking Cullen from his thoughts. "The handwriting... I'm certain it's not the same as whoever wrote the scroll."

Cullen took a deep breath. He'd thought as much, but thinking and knowing were two different things. "So Aethesia has someone doing her research for her."

"Possibly," Dorian said. "At the very least, someone else is living in that house."

"The voice from the crystal? The one Aethesia was fighting with?" Mae suggested.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Dorian said.

Mae hugged her arms across her stomach. "We should set up surveillance. See who comes in and who goes out."

"I'll get one of Leliana's people on it." As reluctant as Cullen was to involve the Inquisition's spymaster, it was her area of expertise. He was under no illusions that his digging would not get back to her, but it was a long way from Tevinter to the Frostbacks. As he figured, he had at least a week before she was any wiser.

Good. Good. "We have a plan."

The carriage rattled to a stop in front of the Senate. As they made their way out, the afternoon sun high overhead, Cullen began to sweat. Though the crumbling stone offered some respite from from the heat, his trepidation stemmed elsewhere.

There was no doubt that the previous night's events would make waves. If the blatant murder that took place at the ball wasn't enough, someone had seen him slip out of Aethesia's mansion. Not the masgister herself—the voice had lacked her distinct Rivaini accent. A woman, he thought. Aethesia's mystery guest perhaps?

Well, he supposed he might just have to ask her.

Cullen didn't make it five feet before Dorian grabbed him by the arm. "Just a moment. The first hour isn't for visitors—magisterium business."

His nose scrunched in irritation. "Then why was I summoned?"

"Well," Dorian started, " _you_ weren't. I just didn't want to leave you to your own devices in that stuffy embassy. Maker knows you're brooding enough as is." Cullen opened his mouth to protest, but Dorian held up a hand. "Just wait outside. Sit in the garden. I hear manicured lawns are quite relaxing."

"And what of all the blood-thirsty magisters after my neck?"

Dorian shrugged. "To be honest, after last night's display, I'd be very surprised if anyone tried something. Blood-thirsty or not."

Cullen sighed. He supposed the man was right. Nothing made people cautious like outright murder. "Fine. I'll wait."

"Splendid," Dorian said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll be back in a few hours--"

"You said one hour--"

"Did I? Slip of the tongue. If you'll excuse me."

"Dorian!" Cullen called, but he had already slipped into the Senate chamber. 

Somewhat irritated, he made his way outside, carefully retracing his steps to the garden he'd sat in the day before. He did his best to conceal his limp. Whatever Dorian said, weakness was best not known to his enemies. The garden was the same—a small rosebush and withered grass. In the corner a spindly tree with smooth branches was planted, and, underneath, a small stone table with daintily carved wooden pieces atop.

Chess. Of course. It was what drew him to this garden in the first place. There was a certain comfort in a game that was the same no matter where he went. If he closed his eyes and ignored the heat, he might be in the garden at Skyhold. A soft breeze, cold with Frostback air, rustled the trees. Mal perched herself on top of the chess table, legs swinging idly, the game entirely forgotten—she always cheated anyway. Cullen laughed, and kissed her anyway, because she was there, alive and sweet--

"Don't tell me you're lost again," a petulant voice said, snapping Cullen from his daydream. "You sure look lost," Tessaeris said.

"Lost in thought, perhaps," Cullen replied. "What are you doing here, little one?"

"Waiting for my teacher. She told me to practice my lessons while she's in the Senate."

A chill ran down his spine. "Practice your magic?"

Tessaeris crinkled her nose. "No. Aethesia doesn't like me using magic when she's not there." She nodded to the parchment and quill set on a bench across the lawn. "I'm supposed to practice my letters."

Cullen's pulse slowed considerably. He had a vivid image of a little blond girl with a cut in her hand, summoning demons in the garden. But... letters, that was almost normal. As normal as schoolwork could be to children, at any rate.

"I should leave you to your studies, then." He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.

"Do you play chess, ser?"

He followed her gaze to the board. The pieces were still scattered, like someone had stopped in the middle of a game. "I do play chess. Why do you ask?"

"My teacher, Aethesia, she says chess is 'a brilliant sport of the mind.'" He could tell from her inflection that it was a direct quote. "I think she would be okay if I took a break from my letters to play chess."

Cullen found himself smiling. "I daresay she would." He nodded to the board, and the girl wriggled into the first seat. Cullen took up position opposite her. "Do you know how to play, little one?"

Tessaeris shook her head. "I only know a little bit. That's the queen," she pointed to the piece, "and she can do whatever she wants."

 _Careful, Cullen. She looks like Mal, but that doesn't mean she is Mal._ "Something like that. This one is called the king, and this one the bishop..." He pointed out all the pieces and explained how they moved, Tessaeris nodding all the while.

"The knight," he said, picking up the horse-shaped piece, "moves like an 'L.'"

Tess instantly perked up. "That's a letter."

"See? You're studying your letters after all."

As it turned out, Tessaeris was a much more apt pupil than Mal ever was. As Cullen explained the objectives of the game, Tess mouthed words back and asked the odd question or two.

"This one--" she laid a finger on a pawn. "I can only move one space forward at a time?"

"Yes, unless it's the first turn."

"Oh, okay." She plucked the piece and tapped it two spaces forward. "Like that."

"Like that," he agreed, and moved his own pawn forward. "I take it we're beginning then?"

She snorted. "Duh."

They played in silence for a time, Tessaeris blowing the bangs from her face and kicking her legs under the table. Every once in awhile, she would squint at the board and mouth something to herself, but otherwise they played without speaking.

"It's your turn," he said, as she continued to chew her lip in silence.

"I know that."

Though he was going easy on her, Tess took the game with the utmost seriousness. She'd made a few serious blunders early on by acting too quickly, but she was determined not to make the same mistakes twice. Her eyes skimmed the board, looking for every possible move. The wrong color, he decided—dark brown, too dark—but the same shape, and lined with a thick fringe of brown lashes.

She had a bad habit of scrunching her nose, which made pinning the rest of her features a bit harder. So much of her face was still baby soft that it was hard to tell what looked like Mal and what was just underdeveloped. He even struggled determining the proper curl of her hair, pinned up as it was, but he suspected loose and wavy from the careless ringlets that escaped her bun, more like Mia's than Mal's.

"What is it you're supposed to say when you win? Check-mate?"

"Check—what?" Cullen shook away his idle thoughts and glanced down at the board. Sure enough, his king was neatly surrounded by a half dozen of her pieces, half of which he didn't even remember being on that side of the board.

"Check-mate. That's what you say, isn't it? When you win?" She nodded to the board. "I won."

His gaze flicked rapidly between the board and her. He knew he'd been a little zoned out, but not enough to lose an entire game. Where was his queen? What happened to the pawns on her side of the board? "How did you--" He stopped short. Fifteen black pieces on the board. Three black pieces off the board. Eighteen pieces total.

"You cheated."

Tess stuck out her lip. "Just because you got beat by a little girl--"

"No, you literally _cheated_. This--" he picked up a black pawn next to his king, "—isn't even your piece. It's a knight." Sure enough, the surface of the wooden piece was rough and textured. Carved, not smooth like a pawn. "It's an illusion."

Tessaeris's face dropped. "How did you know?"

"I've been at this a lot longer than you have." He set the piece back down on the board. A moment later, the spell dropped, and sure enough, the black pawn shimmered into a white horse. "Plus, you had eighteen black pieces on the board. There are only sixteen in chess."

"Oh." Her gaze dropped back to board, like she was scanning her moves again. "You won't tell my teacher, will you? She doesn't like me to use magic when she's not around, but I really wanted to try this new spell--"

"I won't tell her," Cullen promised. Though he genuinely didn't want to get the girl in trouble, he also wondered how he could even go about ratting her out. _Hello, yes, magister? I know I planted a listening device on you and broke into your home last night, but I thought you ought to know your apprentice is practicing magic on her own_.

Tessaeris visibly relaxed. "Thank you, ser. For not telling. And for playing with me. I don't know why Aethesia says you're not a nice man, because I think you really are."

 _Now I wonder why she might say that?_ Still, this was the second time Tess mentioned the magister speaking of him or the Inquisition. Just how commonplace was their organization in the Vitellius household? "What else does Aethesia say about me?"

The girl chewed her lip. "Well, it's mostly just stuff I overheard, but I know you work for the Inquisition—who are not very nice people, because they tear apart families, like mine."

"Like yours?" The girl looked away, obviously uncomfortable, but Cullen couldn't help but press. "Who are your parents, Tessaeris?"

Her face became stony. "My mama died giving birth to me. My da was killed by Inquisition soldiers when I was three. Magister Vitellius took me in because she was old friends with him. I don't remember either of them." Cullen watched her lock up, the words falling from her lips like a recitation. He knew a well-practiced lie when he saw one.

"How did your father know Magister Vitellius?"

"Her and da studied together. In Orlais."

"And your mother?"

"A mage from another circle. They met after the circles fell."

"What was her name?" he asked.

"Mary."

"What was your father's name?"

"Emerius."

"Tevinter?"

"Tevene," she corrected. "Is that all, ser?"

It was so strange, how thoroughly she locked up compared to just a minute before. In a few words, Tessaeris had transformed from a little girl, albeit a mischievous one, to a small porcelain statue, so rigid that a strong breeze might shatter her skin. Her hands, carefully folded in her lap, under the table so he couldn't see how tight she was squeezing her fingers.

"Of course, little one. I apologize. I didn't mean to pry."

Her shoulders didn't relax an inch. "Well you did."

"Yes, but I didn't _mean_ to--"

"But you did."

"I didn't mean--" He blew out a frustrated breath. Whatever she lacked in looks, she made up for by being just as irritating as Mal. "I'm sorry. I pried, and I'm sorry."

Tessa stared at him for a long time, her gaze strangely analytical. Was she taking back her thoughts about him?

Finally, she said, "Apology accepted, ser."

A small silence settled between them, Tessaeris kicking her feet and watching him with those big brown eyes all the while. For every moment he swore she couldn't be a blood mage, that reproachful stare begged otherwise. For once, he did not think of Mal when he looked at her. Instead, he could not shake the image of Aethesia from his mind.

"Ah, do you like your life here? In Tevinter?" Cullen asked, feeling somewhat awkward.

She chewed her lip and twisted her skirt in her hands. "I guess. I don't remember Rivain--"

"Tessaeris!" A familiar woman's voice split the air. They both looked up, Cullen half-expecting to see the glowering magister herself, but the accent was wrong. Not Rivaini—Starkhaven maybe?

The elven woman stepped into the garden from where she'd lingered at the threshold. "Tessaeris, we've been looking for you. You haven't been avoiding your letters, have you?" Her gaze flicked over to Cullen for the first time. Something twisted in her expression, something like... fear? "And who is this?"

Starkhaven for sure, Cullen decided, as Tessaeris slid from her seat and hurriedly curtsied to the woman. "No, Rosa. I was playing chess, which is like letters. This is--" Tessa cast him a sidelong glance, and he realized for the first time that they had never personally exchanged names.

"Commander Cullen of the Inquisition," he said, rising stiffly from his chair. His knee twinged at the movement, a reminder of the morning's exploits. "And you, ma'am?"

There it was again—a cautiousness that hung about her. "Rosa. I tend to Lady Tessaeris." Her words were measured, like she was afraid to say the wrong thing. In fact, her entire demeanor was one of hesitancy, from her twitching rabbit nose to her flat brown hair. Her features were plain, like she was afraid of being remarkable in any way. And yet, he could have sworn he heard her voice before.

"Ah, I see. Tessa asked me to show her how to play chess, and I—I did not think the magister would mind."

The woman looked hesitantly between the two of them. "Ah. I'm afraid Tessaeris must return now, ser. If you'll excuse us, Commander Rutherford."

He bowed slightly to each of them as Rosa gathered Tessaeris and her things and made to leave. "Cullen, please." It was one thing for magisters to address him formally. This elf—even if she worked for Aethesia—was just a piece, not a player. The least he could do was put her on level with him.

Mal always went out of her way to do things like that.

After a moment, Rosa agreed. "Cullen. Until later."

"Until later."

As he watched her leave, he realized where he'd heard her voice before. He couldn't quite piece it together until she said his name.

Cullen.

Rosa was the one who had seen him in Aethesia's mansion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading. Please comment with your thoughts. Even little comments are appreciated as author fuel<3
> 
> You can follow my writing blog at brotherhoodoffeels.tumblr.com for more gr8 sad content.


	6. Chapter 6

A week passed in silence.

Cullen attended a few more meetings in the Senate before it became totally obvious that he was useless at diplomacy and Josephine's people took over. A slender man with a neatly trimmed beard informed him that, now that the introductions were over, his presence was no longer strictly necessary. In truth, Cullen suspected they were afraid of another “incident”--that was what they were calling the ball. An _incident_. Like someone had spilled tea on the rug. Murder, more like.

Without politics to occupy him, Cullen was left to his own devices. He poured over the letters he had recovered from Aethesia's manse, trying to glean what little information they provided. The majority of the correspondences were from a single source: Lord Varas Pellinar of Qarinus. The language was coded, but clearly discussed shipments between the lord and the magister. Whoever Pellinar was, he was engaged in some kind of business with Aethesia. For a time, Cullen considered passing along his name to Leliana to see what she knew of him, but he soon discarded the idea. Leliana was never one to only do a _little_ digging.

In addition to the letters from Lord Pellinar, there were half a dozen from various figures in the Imperium. Again, riddled with coded language and strange little innuendos. He wondered what exactly Aethesia was doing that made her so paranoid. Sure, blood magic was technically illegal, but no one went to great lengths to hide it. What she was doing had to be more... sinister.

Other than the letters, Cullen had the scroll to peruse, but he had markedly less luck with that. At least the letters were in a language he could read, but those ramblings about corpses and resurrection? Hardly even intelligible. He tried to sit down with it—really sit, with one of those apprentice tomes to reference whenever the jargon got too thick—but his efforts bore little fruit. Eventually, he decided to pass the whole thing off to Maevaris.

As for the journal... Dorian practically slept with the thing, assuming he slept at all. Cullen only ever saw him leaving for the Senate or in an office in the Embassy, desk cluttered with notes as he simultaneously tried to teach himself Rivaini and translate.

Every night they gathered in Cullen's room to discuss their findings. Dorian hastily rattled off the highlights from his most recent translations—most of which were just references to her daily life. As best he could tell, the journal started when Aethesia was still pursuing her studies in Orlais. She talked at length about being bedridden, though not what put her there; she only referred to it as “the attack."

“Her fabled dragon fight?” Maevaris suggested.

“Possibly,” Dorian said. “It's dated nine years ago.”

Cullen sat up a bit. “Her first entry was her birthday, wasn't it?”

“Her twenty-third birthday,” Dorian confirmed. “Which would make her thirty-two now.”

 _Thirty-two_. It was strange to think of this magister, an all-powerful bloodmage, as little more than a young adult. “Does this match with her records?”

Dorian shrugged. “I don't know yet. My contact couldn't arrange for me to see the archives until later this week.”

“Too bad,” Maevaris said. “Is there anything else of note from the journal?”

“Not really. There's a very odd entry about her family. She talks a bit about her sister, no name, and her father--”

“The elf?” Cullen asked.

Dorian frowned. “No, the magister. Where did you hear that?”

“During the ball. Aethesia and I—spoke. For a time. She said her father was an elf. That she was a bastard.”

“She's probably not talking about her biological father then,” Maevaris said. “Just the Vitellius her mother was married to.”

Cullen nodded. “Right.” _That makes sense_.

“That's about all I have. It's a lot of dry reading, but I'll start translating some of the letters soon. Those should prove a bit more... interesting.” Dorian snapped the journal shut. “What have you all got?”

“Well, it's a bit dense, but I think I've got something here.” Maevaris flattened the scroll onto the table, along with a second piece of parchment filled with her notes. “It took some research, but I think I figured out the root of that spell. You were right, it's not necromancy—it's healing magic. Circle-based. Orlesian, if I had to take a guess.”

Dorian's eyes widened. “Healing? But that—” He looked to Cullen, then quickly away, but not before he could notice.

“What?” Cullen asked. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Dorian said. “It's just, do you... know anything about this?”

Cullen pulled back. “Me? Why would I know anything about this?”

“Mal, she did a lot of healing--”

“She didn't raise the dead.”

“Yes, I know. It's—it's just that...” Dorian sighed. “Never mind. You're right. This is something else altogether, I think.”

Maevaris nodded. “I've never seen anything like it. But I'll reach out to some friends who know how to keep a secret. See what they've heard about. If this is the new fad for blood mages, I doubt it'll have kept too quiet.”

Cullen watched as Mae rolled up the documents and tucked them away. Mal had been a gifted healer—one of the best, it was true. Before they had become involved, he had caught her sneaking through the refugees outside of Haven with pockets stuffed full of elfroot. She'd pulled up her hood and smudged dirt across her face until she looked like just another civilian shuffling through the crowd. Even after they elevated her to Inquisitor, she would still dress down, hide her mark under thick wool gloves and work miracles with bandages and herbs.

 _The best healers can work without magic_ , she'd say. _But a little lyrium goes a long way_. After they had been ambushed on their way back from the Winter Palace, Mal had been the one to patch him up. He could still see the seriousness in her gaze—so brief, so strange—as his vision passed to black, only to fade back a minute later as she pressed a salve against the wound.

_“I can't believe I fainted over an arrow wound.”_

_She laughed shakily. “Just be glad you opened your eyes again.”_

_“If I went cradled in your arms, I'd be a happy man.”_

No. Mal was healer. She didn't reanimate the dead.

As Dorian and Maevaris turned to him, he explained what new information he'd gleaned from the letters. About Lord Pallinar and the strangely coded language. They speculated for a few minutes what their business might be—illegal slaving on the side, political machinations, smuggling—but it was only speculation. They kept their business well-hidden.

“What about Leliana's man? What has he found?”

“I met with him earlier today. He gave me this.” Cullen smoothed a report onto the table. He gave them the details in brief. “Aethesia leaves every morning with a small entourage—Tessaeris and a few elves--presumably for the Senate. Tessaeris and one of the elves return some time in the afternoon.”

“Which elf?” Dorian asked. “The manservant?”

Cullen shook his head. “A woman. Brown hair—Rosa, her name is, I think, based on the description.”

Maevaris raised an eyebrow. “Do you know her?”

“Ah—no. But we met, briefly, at the Senate.”

Dorian and Maevaris exchanged glances—an infuriating habit of theirs—but said nothing. A small blessing, since he had neglected to mention his encounter in the garden to either of them. He thought it best if they did not know about his interactions with Tessaeris. He could imagine Dorian's warnings about blood mages.

Tessaeris wasn't a blood mage. She was a child.

Dorian picked up the scroll and started to skim. “Aethesia doesn't return until later—dinnertime, usually,” Cullen continued. “The mansion is quiet for a few hours, and then--”

“She leaves again,” Dorian said, brow furrowed.

Cullen nodded. “Around midnight. Every night. On foot.”

“Well, what is she doing?” Mae asked, frowning.

“Definitely not sleeping, that's for sure,” Dorian said. “It says here she doesn't get back until nearly dawn—if he sees her come back at all. Two times, she hasn't returned, but still left again for the Senate later.”

“Secret entrance?” Maevaris suggested.

“Maybe,” Cullen said. “There were some books near that scroll I found—they talked about long-distance fade steps.”

“But why would she bother to fade step in, and not fade step out?”

“It's dark when she leaves and she doesn't trust a carriage driver,” Dorian said. “I think she's trying to avoid being seen. If her business takes her past dawn, she might fade step to avoid being seen on the streets.”

“We should follow her,” Cullen said. “See where she's going.”

“And by 'we' you mean one of Leliana's spies, yes?” Dorian asked. “Because your last stint in espionage didn't turn out so well.”

Cullen hesitated. It was one thing to ask Leliana to track the movements in and out of a mansion. If her person was to tail Aethesia and find sensitive information... Her involvement would quickly escalate from trivial to very, very deep. The reality was he didn't understand what Leliana wanted, and as such, he couldn't trust her.

But as he looked at Dorian, Cullen got the distinct impression that he wasn't interested in 'no' as an answer.

Finally, Cullen nodded. “I'll tell the man to do it tonight.”

What Dorian didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

 

 

True to the scout's word, Cullen caught a black-clad figure leaving from the front gate a little before midnight. He watched the guard nod knowingly to the figure and open the gate just a crack, enough for her slender form to slip through. In the week since Cullen has broken in, security had doubled down. Whereas he and Dorian had only spotted six or so men scattered across the whole wall, now he counted ten on the front gate alone.

Even if he wanted, there would be no breaking back in.

As the gate swung closed, Aethesia made not for the street, but for the same alleyway Cullen's carriage had idled in. He hurried after her into the now-empty side street, carefully ducking behind cover whenever she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Wearing the same borrowed scouting leathers, skirting the outer wall, he couldn't help the chill of deja-vu that skittered down his spine.

 _Except this time, there's no one to rescue you if you get caught,_ he thought grimly.

Aethesia took a rambling path through back alleys and dirt roads. Whatever she was up to, Dorian was right—she didn't want to be seen. Which meant her business was illegal, or shameful. Either way, blackmail material.

He wasn't so familiar with Minrathous that he could gauge their exact path, but he definitely recognized the shift from upscale residential districts to the more business-oriented sector. Dorian had purposely guided him away from the area, and now Cullen could see why. The streets were lined with auction blocks—empty at night, but still obvious in their purpose. These were the streets where they sold slaves.

For the first time since leaving her mansion, Aethesia stepped into the open street. While the residential district had retained a few individuals walking beside the street, the auction houses were completely abandoned. Still, the magister picked up her pace as she crossed the way, tossing glances up and down the street. Cullen held back until she had made it into an alleyway on the opposite side of the street before following. But as he crossed the cobbled road, his foot caught on a loose stone and sent it skittering across the street. Aethesia spun—too quickly, like she had been waiting for it—and Cullen only just managed to dive behind a stack of crates at the mouth of the alley.

From his hiding place, he watched her scan the street, features obscured by a thick veil. Slowly, she raised a gloved hand and began to roll her wrist in a tight circle. His muscles tensed as he recognized the dull glow of arcane magic, only to relax a moment later when she released the spell. Her form shimmered once, then shifted, dissolving into the skinny shape of a servant girl with mousy brown hair.

Rosa. Clever to take the form of one of her servants. Now at least they knew what she was using her illusion research for.

Aethesia scanned the street one last time, then turned back into the alley and hurried forward.

Cullen waited a minute, until he was sure she had moved on. When he resumed his tail, he made sure to keep a good distance back. It made following harder, especially as she continued to weave her way through the back streets, but the caution seemed well-founded. If she thought murder was an appropriate response to calling her a bastard, what would she do to a man who broke into her house and stole her diary?

It was just as well that he stayed back, because a minute or two later Aethesia dipped into the back entrance of an auction house, out of sight. From his hiding spot outside, Cullen debated following her. It was entirely possible she was trying to ditch him by cutting through a building. On the other hand, this might actually be her destination. If he barreled inside, he would alert her and whoever else was there to his presence.

Cautiously, he pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear whoever might be inside. The voices came louder than he expected—right on the other side of the door.

“I trust you'll have the usual shipment ready.” A voice, softly accented. Aethesia.

“Of course, my lady,” said another, a man. “Is it truly necessary to check up?”

“I wanted to make sure you didn't forget, lest some nasty rumors start spreading about you and your family.”

There was a sound like a book snapping shut. “Yes, my lady, I'm quite aware that you own me, if you wouldn't mind rubbing it in.”

“Good.” She sounded pleased. “Women and children, as always.”

“As always,” he agreed.”

“And I want a list of your top buyers—other than me of course.”

“What--? No, that's—my customers expect confidentiality.”

“That's unfortunate to hear. I suppose I'll just slip some of those letters--”

“Rivaini bitch. Fine, fine.” A piece of paper ripped in half, and a moment later he said, “I hope you choke on this.”

“Pleasure doing business with you too.”

Footsteps hit stone, and Cullen had but a moment to quickly shuffle behind some crates before the door swung open. A moment later, a wizened old woman hobbled from inside the auction house.

Cullen realized, again, it was Aethesia.

Maker, if she wasn't paranoid.

She took a different route than the way she came, her footsteps hurried and muffled despite her supposedly bent figure. Definitely an illusion instead of a true shape change.

They were just at the cusp of the residential district, in the stretch of the long alleyway when Aethesia stopped and turned around.

“You can come out now,” she called, eyes scraping over the alley behind her. Her voice came out not as her own, but that of a feeble old woman. “I promise it will be better if you show yourself.”

Cullen held his breath, not daring to peek from behind his barrel. The rapid staccato of his heart was punctuated by the click of heeled shoes on cobblestone. Any moment her roving gaze would pick him out. He could lunge for her first, grab her by the legs, maybe get an advantage--

The heels stopped.

“I wish you didn't feel the need to hide, but...” He watched in astonishment as a tall wall of ice shot up in front of him, some twenty feet tall, sealing the end of the alleyway. “I mean you no harm. I just need to know who hired you to follow me.” For once, she didn't sound angry. Her tone was almost maternal, the same way she spoke to Tessaeris.

With his hands raised, he slowly pivoted on his knees out from his hiding spot.

Aethesia stopped, blinking owlishly. “Well, I can honestly say that's not what I was expecting.”

“Magister,” he said.

“Cullen,” she replied. “Doesn't Leliana have people to do this for you?”

“I prefer to do my own work.”

“Of course.” She studied him for a long moment, then finally waved a hand at him. “Well, get up. It's weird if you just stand there on your knees like that. Makes me feel like some kind of executioner.”

“Aren't you?” Cullen said, but rose to his feet.

She shot him a dirty look. “Honestly, Cullen, that's rude.” Disguised as she was, he towered almost a foot and half over her gnarled, hobbled form. Everything about her demeanor contradicted her cronish appearance, leaving him with a vaguely unsettled feeling.

“Would you drop that?” he asked. He felt like he was talking to someone's grandmother.

She glanced down at herself. “Oh, what—this? Is there something you'd prefer? Maybe like--” she rolled her wrist-- “this?” Her image shimmered, as the looks of the crone fell away and was replaced by a young woman.

Her curly blond hair fell around her jaw, messy and wind-tousled. Her face was still soft with youth, pale brown eyes emitting a dull glow in the moonlight. She had perfect cupid's bow lips, made for kissing and—other things. Wide hips, but a short frame. He didn't know where Aethesia had learned Mal's image, but she looked the same as the day she died. Aethesia had captured Mal to the letter, except where her left hand should have been, there was nothing. From the elbow down, her arm was missing.

Cullen found himself reaching for a sword that wasn't there. Aethesia must have realized the significance of him gripping air, because she frowned. “Cullen--”

“Drop her form. Now.” He had no time for her act, this feigned hurt. She could make those big eyes at him all night. He knew what she was. Blood mage. This was just proof that she relished his suffering.

Slowly, Aethesia held up both hands in front of her. Or rather, one hand and part of an arm. _How did she know about that?_ “Cullen, let me just explain, alright? It's--”

“I said _drop it_.” He may not have had a sword, but he knew how to threaten with his voice. The magister stopped, shook her head, and rolled her invisible left hand. A moment later, she returned to her true form.

“Better?”

“It's a start,” he snarled.

“Great. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's rather late--”

“Who are Tessaeris's parents?” He took a step toward her, but she only crossed her arms. “Tell me.”

“You know that you have absolutely no leverage, right?” she said, arching an eyebrow at him. “That's how these things work, usually. You have to have information on me before I give you anything. Blackmail 101.”

“I know you were meeting with a slaver.”

She sighed. “Yes, but do you have proof? Any way to leverage that against me?” He studied her expression for some kind of tell, but her face was entirely obscured behind her veil. “I didn't think so.” She sounded disappointed. “Take my advice: quit while you're ahead. Retirement will do wonders for you.”

His jaw clenched. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Believe me when I say, I'd like nothing more than for you to live a long, happy life. Besides,” she shrugged, “rest and relaxation does wonders for the headaches.”

“What?” How did she know about that?

Maybe he was too obvious, because as she took a step back from him, she said, “Lyrium withdrawal doesn't just 'end,' Commander. I thought you would have known that.” He felt a familiar prickle of magic across his skin as she raised her left hand. In a panic, he lunged forward to grab her by the wrist, only to falter in his grip when his hand closed around not flesh, but hard metal.

Aethesia cocked her head to the side as he flinched away, her expression utterly obscured. By the time he thought to grab her again, it was too late—the air behind her rippled, and a moment later she was swallowed up into nothing, leaving Cullen alone in an empty alleyway.

Frustrated and empty-handed, Cullen picked his way back to the embassy with more questions than answers. Aethesia _knew_ things. About Mal, about the Inquisition, about himself. That information had to come from somewhere, which meant a leak. Someone within the Inquisition—deep within the Inquisition—was feeding a magister in Tevinter sensitive information. If Aethesia knew about his lyrium withdrawal, something only a handful of people had knowledge about, there was no telling what else she knew.

Cullen returned the embassy still under the cover of darkness. He figured he had a few good hours of sleep before he got back up and pretended to Dorian that nothing had happened. There was no chance in hell he could mention his expedition now, not after he had been caught by the magister and still come up with nothing.

He sneaked up the stairs as quietly as possible, fumbling only a little in the dark. The old floor boards creaked ever so slightly under his weight, forcing him to pause every few seconds to make sure there was no stirring from behind Dorian's door. After what felt like a lifetime of stopping and waiting, he finally slipped into his own room. He leaned against the closed door and breathed a deep sigh.

Safe, or as safe as he could be while still in Tevinter.

“You know, you're really rubbish at all this espionage stuff. I would stick to commanding.”

At the sound of Maevaris's voice, Cullen nearly jumped out of his skin. In his relief to be back in his own chambers he had completely overlooked her sitting by the fireplace, in the same spot he had left her a few hours ago.

“I'm sorry Mae. I didn't see you there.” The room was more or less in shadow, save for the low glow emitting from the fireplace. He moved to step deeper into the shadows, where she was less likely to see his light armor. As if. Maevaris was already waiting for him—she knew something was up.

“It's quite alright. You didn't see the man I sent to follow you, either.” She stood, running one hand down the front of her dress to smooth her skirts. “So? Did you find anything interesting when you followed Aethesia?”

Someone had followed him? She was right, then. He was awful at espionage.

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest. “No, not particularly. She's meeting with a slaver.”

Maevaris shrugged. “Lots of magisters do that.”

“That's what I thought,” Cullen said. “She's blackmailing the man to do it, though.”

“Interesting. Any proof?”

Cullen shook his head. “No.”

“Too bad.” Maevaris took a long sip of water from the goblet on the coffee table, bobbing her head like she was considering it. “Anything else?”

He hesitated, hands on the back of the couch. Dorian trusted Mae, and so far Mae had been nothing but helpful. When she realized he was following Aethesia himself, she hadn't told Dorian. Maybe... maybe he could trust her. Just one person.

“Someone in the Inquisition is leaking information to Magister Vitellius. Sensitive information.”

That caught her attention. “Sensitive information? Like what?”

“About Mal and... myself.”

“How do you know?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I... spoke to her. Tonight.”

Maevaris shot him a significant look. “Well, there goes subterfuge. Though I suppose neither of us should really be surprised.” Cullen couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a slight or not. He decided not, since Maevaris didn't seem the type. Just a matter-of-fact. He'd half-expected her to ask more, what she knew and why, but no questions came up.

After a silence, she cleared her throat. “Well, I'd best be off. Dorian is meeting with his contact in the morning. He's going to look at Aethesia's records.” At the door, she hesitated. “I won't tell Dorian about this. I understand things are... personal.”

He looked at her—really looked, for the first time—and saw something in her eyes he did not expect in Tevinter. Compassion. Understanding. It occurred to him he did not know anything about Maevaris, except that she was a Magister and Dorian's friend. Did she have a family? A husband? Children? Worse—did she _used_ to?

Rather than ask, he returned her favor, and did not pry. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Of course, Cullen. Any time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please comment with your thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

The day dawned hotter than all the previous. The were nearing the peak of summer, but the heat showed no signs of slowing down. How sinister magisters managed to wear all black was beyond him. It was a lot of work just for a look, but Tevinter was all about _looks_. While senators waxed poetic about their ongoing war with the Qunari, their cities crumbled. In his week in the capital, Cullen had grown used to the uneven cobblestone and once-grand buildings, now chipping away under the elements. Ambassadors had coralled him into the upper class residential districts, leaving him only to imagine the disrepair of the slums.

Truth be told, Tevinter was an empire ready to collapse into itself.

Of course nobody here wanted to hear that. Dorian still harbored hopes of redemption for his homeland, and Mae—well, he wasn't actually sure what Mae hoped for, but she was certainly working towards _some_ future for Tevinter. That was what the Lucerni were about in the first place. Hope for a crumbling ruin.

Maybe he was bitter. Maybe he didn't care. There was no soft spot in his heart for a place like this, mired in politics and too twisted for its own good. Machines like this weren't meant to survive.

While Dorian and Maevaris chose another carriage, Cullen took to a horse behind them. He didn't think he could survive the muggy heat of the cab, or Maevaris's knowing look. Since the ball, no attempts had been made on his life, making everyone fairly comfortable with the arragement. He didn't seem likely to be assassinated in broad daylight. All the same, he kept his sword and his armor.

Dorian's contact met them in the courtyard outside the magisterium. Somewhere in those halls was information about Magister Vitellius—who she was, where she came from, what she wanted. If they were lucky, there might even be mention of Tessaeris. The story about her parents was an obvious lie, undoubtedly formulated by the magister. The real question—like everything else related to Aethesia—was why.

They knew many things, individually. She was interested in the Inquisition, and him specifically. Someone in her house was researching necromancy, and illusions, which the magister was using to cover up her late night expeditions to meet with her slaver. The slaver was being manipulated by Aethesia, likely by blackmail. But of course none of this told them what she _wanted_. There were a million ways those could fit together. She was making an infinite undead army of slaves, which she would then set against the Inquisition. She was obsessed with perfecting immortality and needed live subjects to test. Or worst of all—none of it was connected, and they were tying themselves into knots to make sense of madness.

They waited half an hour in the courtyard, watching bureaucrats trickle in and out of the dim stone doorways. A fine line of sweat ran down his spine, but for all his discomfort, Maevaris and Dorian were entirely unaffected. They leaned against a column, deep in hushed discussion. Cullen was left to his own thoughts.

Even after ten years in Kirkwall, he had never really adjusted to the heat. His time in the Frostbacks had only served to reaffirm his Ferelden roots. As a native Marcher, Mal always had an affinity for summer. She reveled in afternoon thunderstorms and bathed in the rain she had missed most of her life. She was wild and tempestuous and he was a fool to think she could stay in one place for so long. If he had held her a little more loosely, pushed her less...

No. Not here. He was not about to let himself be lured into those memories while in this pit of vipers. Tevinter didn't deserve any of Mal, least of all her spirit.

Maevaris nudged Dorian, nodding her head to something over his shoulder. Cullen followed her gaze to the dark hallway of the magisterium. He crossed his arms, prepared to be whisked away to the hall of records by Dorian's contact. But instead of some bespeckled bureaucrat, his eyes found the magister Aethesia.

Her red hair was piled on top of her head in a strange nest of braids, accented by the comb which held her veil in place. She walked purposefully, but not rushed—confident, in control—her deep blue sleeveless dress billowing about her legs. From her silver epaulets dangled several fine black chains which looped and crossed until they found purchase in the three metal claws on her thumb, index, and middle fingers. Behind her trailed the same elven man with the serious expression, arms crossed behind his back.

Immediately her gaze shifted, finding the three of them in the corner of the courtyard, and she diverted her brisk pace.

"Magister Pavus, Magister Tilani," she greeted them. "And Cullen. What on earth are you three doing here?"

Her tone was pleasant, but Cullen felt his shoulders tense. He considered asking her about her night, but decided it was better not to tip off Dorian. "Aethesia," he returned, carefully omitting her title. "We might ask you the same thing." Dorian shot him a look of warning. _Don't do anything stupid_.

Under her veil, Cullen imagined a politician's smile. "I work here, actually. I was doing a bit of research for some legislation I've been looking into. Which is why I wanted to talk to you, Magister Tilani."

"Me?" Maevaris said, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation.

"Yes, you. I think the movement I want to propose would be of great interest to you."

"What's it about?" Maevaris asked, tone carefully neutral.

"I'd like to ensure that the children of magisters are guaranteed their seats in the Senate, particularly when their parents died under... _questionable_ circumstances."

Something shifted in the air, too subtle for Cullen to entirely identify. He watched Maevaris and Aethesia lock gazes, some unspoken words exchanged between them. Dorian caught Mae by the wrist, but she gave him a placating smile. "I'd be very interested in discussing it with you."

"Excellent. Shall we walk?"

Maevaris gestured to the path that led outside the Senate. "After you."

Cullen watched the two women leave, trailed by Aethesia's elven servant, their voices pitched low. Cullen made to ask Dorian what that was about, but the man only shook his head. "If Mae wants to tell you, she'll tell you. It's not mine to explain. Besides," he nodded to a figure moving through the courtyard, "there's our man."

Dorian's contact was red-cheeked and out of breath. Jareth, he said his name was—a slender man of a sunburned complexion, with a large pair of spectacles resting prominently on his nose.

"Sorry about being, er--" he tossed a quick glance around, searching for prying eyes. Luckily, Aethesia was nowhere to be seen. "Sorry," Jareth repeated. "It's been something of a day."

"It's only a few hours past sunrise," Cullen said, none too kindly. The stakes were too high and he was too impatient to deal with such delays.

Jareth dabbed his brow nervously. "Yes, well, it's been something of a morning, then." He shuffled a handful of papers, finally coming to one piece of parchment with a series of hastily scribbled notes on it. "I've already found where her records are stored. I'll get you in, and we should have at least ten minutes before anyone comes looking."

Cullen nodded, stepping forward. "Alright. Let's get to it then.

Jareth looked him over. "Oh, no, sorry, not you. I can reasonably sneak in Magister Pavus, but you? Not a chance."

Cullen's nose crinkled. No. He was not going to stand around waiting while they got information. He too involved in this to be set to the side. "Make me invisible. Use one of your," he gestured vaguely, "spells."

Dorian, who had been been uncharacteristically quiet all morning, shook his head wearily. "So someone can hear a mysterious clanking following us around?" His voice sounded tired. For the first time, Cullen noticed the bags under his eyes. "Just... stay put, would you? This won't take long."

It was not so much his words that persuaded Cullen so much as the aura of exhaustion that seeped from him. Between his work in the magisterium and translating Aethesia's journal, there was little time for sleep. The further he got in the translation, the more distraught he seemed. As he watched Dorian disappear, he wondered what he could have found to worry him so much.

Cullen crossed his arms and busied himself counting leaves on trees. Why was he being dragged around like this? Dorian said he wasn't worried for his safety, but Cullen suspected that wasn't entirely true. Brooding—that was what they called it, jokingly. Lost in memory, more like, and he could do that anywhere.

 

 

A bitter wind ran through the refugee camp, mixing with the cold rain and creating a chill that sank into his bones. His boots sank into the mud, leaving deep imprints which were soon filled with water. He scanned the crowd of dirty faces hurrying quickly from shelter to shelter, hoods up, eyes down. The sea of people parted easily before him—in his fine armor, he was terribly out of place.

Whenever Mal went missing—whenever a whole day passed without sight of her crossing the courtyard or pacing the battlements, whenever she skipped more than her usual few war councils—the refugee camp was the best place to find her.

Cullen had discovered her hiding spot back in Haven, while she was still more or less under house arrest because the Mark was "too valuable" to lose. The only reason he found her at all was because a pair of guards dragged in an apostate who they caught skulking around the medical tent. Once Cullen dismissed them from the room, Mal had tossed back her hood and rolled her eyes. With her dirt-smudged face and her hair slicked back into a braid, she was barely recognizable.

As far as he knew, none of the other advisors had discovered her yet, with maybe the exception of Leliana, who made it her business to know things people wanted to keep to themselves.

Cullen grabbed a refugee man by the arm. "I'm looking for a woman. Human. Blond. A healer?"

The man, a dour looking fellow with a rough spunbrown hood pulled up against the rain, looked Cullen over critically. "Haven't seen her."

Cullen took a deep breath to steady his irritation. Of course these people would defend her. She was a healer who took no payment, and he was a former templar. The math wasn't hard. "She's not in trouble. The Inquisitor asked for her," he lied. 

The man studied him for a moment longer before jerking his head toward a tent a little down the row. "She's with Neira. Can't guarantee she'll be available, though."

Cullen nodded. "Very well. Thank you."

The tent he had indicated was plain, unremarkable except for the young elven man squatting outside, his face in his hands, who was too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice Cullen approach.

He pushed open the flap of the tent and was immediately surrounded by the smell. Blood and sweat, mixed with something else. Compared to outside, the tent was hot and sticky with humidity. At the center of the tent, a heavily pregnant elven woman sat on a stool, her face contorted in pain. Two women steadied her from behind while Mal kneeled in front of her, one hand on the woman's knee.

"You've still got quite a bit to go, Neira. If we got you a cloak, do you think you could walk? I know it's raining, but it will really help with the dilation."

The woman—Neira--nodded quickly. "I think I can."

"Good." Mal squeezed Neira's hand. "Take Shiree and Lara with you. Let them help you if it gets to be too much.” Neira nodded, standing with the help of the two other women. Mal steadied her, still kneeling. Her hair was braided and pulled back, her usual fine tunic and leggings replaced by the grimy rags of a peasant. Without turning around, she said, “I thought I told you to wait outside, Aian.”

“I, ah, it’s not Aian, M—healer.” Whatever she was doing here, he doubted she would appreciate him ousting her.

At the sound of his voice, Mal tensed. “I see.” She tossed a look over her shoulder, almost as an afterthought. “Commander,” she greeted him. “How can I be of service?”

“If I could speak to you?” he said. “Privately?”

“Of course, Commander.” She rose from her knees, between him and the elven woman who was eyeing him anxiously. Mal offered her a smile and a touch on the elbow. “Don’t worry, Neira. I’ll be back soon.”

“Be safe, Cecelia,” Neira said.

Mal allowed herself a brief smile, before turning to Cullen and following him out of the tent. As they stepped out into the biting cold, the man sitting outside jumped to his feet and pressed upon Mal.

“Is she alright? Did it go okay? What about the baby?”

Mal gave him a reassuring squeeze of his arm. “Nothing’s happened yet, Aian. I’ve asked her to walk around a bit, until she’s dilated a bit more.”

Aian relaxed, but only slightly. “Thank you.” His glance flicked to Cullen over Mal’s shoulder. “What about you? Are you—alright?” he asked, voice pitched a little lower. Despite being a small, unimposing figure, his fist was clenched at his side, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m perfectly alright, but I appreciate your concern,” Mal said. “The Commander and I just have some matters to discuss.”

Aian nodded once, sharp, his gaze shifting from Cullen back to Mal. “Let me know if you need anything, Cecelia. Maker knows I owe you.”

She smiled and didn’t correct him. Instead, she left him to his post outside the tent and caught Cullen’s eye. She tipped her head towards a stone tower on the far side of the camp. They waded silently through the crowd, Cullen acutely aware of the eyes following him. Though he had passed through the first time relatively unremarked—at least so he’d thought—now it felt as if every eye was on him. Any time he tried to scan the crowd, however, whenever he looked directly at someone, they averted their gaze to the ground.

Mal distributed reassuring smiles and friendly nods, which seemed to prevent anyone from stopping them. After far too long, they reach the base of the tower, and slipped inside.

As soon as they were alone, Cullen rounded on Mal. She was already tugging the braids out of her hair, her back pressed firmly to the door.

“Have you been here the entire time?”

Mal ran a hand through her hair, disentangling her curls. “What entire time? How long has it been?”

“Two days.”

“Oh.” She looked genuinely surprised. “Really?”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Really?’ That was all she had? “You can’t keep doing this, Mal.”

“Doing what? Helping refugees?” She threw up her hands in front of her. “Sorry, but that’s not likely.”

“Disappearing. You have duties, responsibilities. You—“ He stopped short, knowing the futility of appealing to her work ethic. She thinly veiled her discomfort with the Inquisition, mostly for his sake, he thought. She was—always had been—a people person.

“I was worried about you, Mal.”

He watched her expression freeze, the thumb nail she was worrying still between her teeth. Her gaze flicked to him, then quickly away. He could see her going through the same thought process as always. She was a creature of habit, after all. Regret, quickly chased down by fear—of commitment, of the unknown, of her own emotions. Every time, every time, he so much as hinted at feeling something for her more than distant fondness, she panicked.

He didn’t dare tell her the three words that lurked at the back of her mind, the words that always made him come back to her.

_I love you._

Maker only knew the absolute maelstrom that would ensue if he let on as much.

He watched her push up her sleeves to the elbows, only to pull them back down again. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking I was just… working, y’know?”

He did know. All too well, in fact. While she busied herself with refugees, he was buried in papers. Maps, notes, reports. It wasn’t uncommon for him to work straight through meals and into the night, until the candles burned low and Mal dragged him to bed.

“I understand,” he said. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt that everyone here likes you.”

Mal snorted. “Yeah. Kind of forgot what that was like, between Corypheus and the Orlesian nobility.”

“And Cecelia?” he asked. “Is that what you told them your name was?”

“Well, I couldn’t really introduce myself as Mal, ‘looks like the Inquisitor, no relation though.’ Besides,” she shot him a grin. “Don’t I look like a Cecelia?”

He looked her up and down. “Honestly, you just look dirty to me.” 

At that, she threw back her head and laughed, almost knocking her skull on the door in the process. “I think you mean I look common.” She pushed off the door towards him, settling her arms around his neck. “It’s the smell that really sells it.”

He made an exaggerated show of sniffing her and scrunching his nose. “Are we certain it’s only been two days?”

“Listen, asshole,” she said. “I know for a fact that you were once a filthy little unwashed common boy yourself.”

“That doesn’t count,” he protested, hands settling about her waist. “All common boys are filthy and unwashed.”

She smiled as he leaned down to kiss her, humming a pleasant note into his mouth. This was how they worked best—when it was just them, with nothing else meddling. No Inquisition, no Breach, no war. No fear. Subtract all that out of the equation and they fit together perfectly. It was everything else that made them jagged.

Maybe Mal was thinking the same thing, because as she leaned her head against his shoulder, she said, “We could be like that, you know. Common.”

He ran a gloved hand down her spine, feeling the individual bumps. An involuntary shiver ran through her, but he doubted it was from the cold. The tower shielded them from the worst of the rain, though a bitter wind cut through a hole in the stone work.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.

She pulled back, suddenly serious. “I mean we could leave if we wanted to. Go somewhere else, live little lives.”

“Us? Leading little lives? I couldn’t imagine you working on a farm.”

“I’m serious,” she said, frowning. “There’d be none of… this. It could be us. Just us.”

Just us. He considered it, if only for a moment. The two of them in a little cottage somewhere in the Hinterlands. Chickens in the backyard, a plot of vegetables, and… little feet on the rough-hewn floors. A little girl with curly blond hair, and sweet cupid’s bow lips.

If he didn’t let himself say the words that lurked at the back of his mind, he certain never let himself so much as think about what a life beyond the Inquisition could mean. Marriage. Children. A family. Things he had thought out of the question until several months ago. Until Mal.

And now… she was suggesting moving in, living a life together, cute, quaint. Simple.

Their relationship wasn’t public, not even to members of the inner circle. They were sneaking around like children, stealing kisses in empty hallways and meeting secretly at night.

He must have been silent too long, because Mal finally shook her head. “It’s stupid, I know. I just wonder what it might have been like without…” she looked around, “all this.”

“It’s not stupid,” he managed finally, but he could see her closing off more and more with each passing second, like the slow slide of an eclipse. Maybe it was better not to let his thoughts wander. They were here, now. That was their reality. “We should focus on what we have,” he said, and felt his heart clench with the words.

Slowly, Mal nodded, and returned her head to his shoulder. “Yeah. Okay.”

 _Here, now_. He knew Mal, much more than she wanted him to. She didn’t want to run away with him—she just wanted to run away, full stop. A family had never been on the table. His time with Mal was limited. The question wasn’t if she would leave him, but when.

 

 

Tevinter was nothing like the Frostbacks, and yet Cullen found himself slipping into memories more and more often. He could chalk it up to the lack of work to occupy his thoughts, or even the little girl who looked strangely like her, but perhaps the most obvious was the plain fact that he missed her. And… maybe he was losing his touch.

Lyrium withdrawal was a slow illness. Usually it was just headaches, fatigue, and insomnia, but some suffered worse. Crippling pain. Memory loss. Hallucinations. He considered his mind a fortress, but these days there was no one to question him. What if his grip wasn’t there? Was Aethesia really the threat he was imagining her to be?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement. A bolt of ragged brown cloth—too bland to ever be seen in public in Tevinter—accompanied by…

Blond hair. Short. Curly.

Not Maevaris.

The right kind of curly. Not like Mia.

His feet were moving before he knew what he was doing. The woman disappeared around a corner, towards the garden.

_Losing… his… touch…_

It could be a look-a-like, some magister with a flair for the drab. Or maybe he wasn’t seeing anything at all.

Or maybe…

He shouldn’t have let his mind run away with things. He should never have given himself so much.

Tessaeris looked so much like her. Could it really be a fluke? Even if she wasn’t Mal’s daughter, Mal had family. Brothers. A sister. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that this girl was…

Family.

His steps traced a familiar path into the garden.

Just ahead of him, the woman tossed a look over her shoulder and disappeared behind a hedge. Same nose. Same profile. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes.

Cullen quickened his pace.

She was always just a little ahead of him. Running away.

Maybe he could get it right this time. Have a family on their little farm in the Hinterlands.

How long had it been since Dorian left? Would he come looking for Cullen? If he looked at him with the same pitying expression, like he was delusional—

The maze of gardens twisted on. She was just out of reach. Always out of reach.

He rounded a corner and found himself in a familiar patio. The chess table under the blossoming tree. A wide lawn, where Tessaeris had sat practicing her letters. His eyes found her in the middle of the grass, like she was waiting. The resemblance was undeniable, but closer now, he could see the features were smudged. He tried to focus on her nose, her wide, rounded nostrils, the slight upturn, but every time he tried to pin it down her features shifted and changed, malleable.

The woman tipped her head to the side curiously. “My god,” she said, and her voice had that same mutable quality. Both Mal’s and not. “You think it’s real.”

The air was forced from his lungs with a crack of arcane energy. The crushing prison shimmered around him, pinning his arms to his sides. Behind him, he could just make out voice over the sound of rushing blood in his ears.

“Excellent work. I couldn’t have hoped for better.” A man. Familiar, but not one he knew by name.

Another said, “Truly marvelous. Should we kill him now, or later?”

“You know the plan, Therius. He’s more valuable as a hostage. What purpose would his death serve?”

“Revenge, for starters.”

“I think there are other ways to make him suffer,” the woman said. She stepped cautiously towards him, and as she did, her visage fell away. Mal’s golden curls fell away to be replaced by auburn hair, and sharp features.

Cullen knew immediately where he had seen her before. _One of the Lucerni_.

Her hand hovered an inch from his cheek. His mind screamed to recoil, but every second breath was harder to come by. He would be unconscious in a matter of minutes.

“I really am rather sorry about this,” she said. What had Dorian said her name was? “I understand you’ve lost too, but the Imperium cannot tolerate this imposition on its sovereignty.” Her hand fell to her side, and she took a step back. “A statement must be made.”

She nodded to the two behind him. He felt a hand clasp each of his shoulders.

To think, after all this time, he was at the mercy of blood mages again. _They used her image against me._

Whatever happened, they would not break him.

“What are you doing here, girl?” The man’s voice sounded behind him, and one hand fell away.

The woman’s gaze fixated on something over his shoulder. “I know your mistress. She sympathizes with our cause. You’d do well to step out of the way.”

“What are you doing to him?” A new voice. A girl.

Tessaeris.

Maker, no.

“It’s none of your concern. Step aside.”

“No.”

“Are you… trying to defend him?” The man—Therius—sounded like he was laughing.

“Leave, girl, or we’ll hurt him more.” Cullen felt the prison contract around him, pulsing his vision black.

“You will _not_.”

A gathering static cracked the air, and Cullen was pushed to the ground as the magister dove out of the way. The world tumbled as he rolled onto his side, the prison still pinning his arms to him. He expected to see another magister joining the fray—Dorian, Maevaris, even Aethesia—but instead there was only Tessaeris. Lightning crawled across her skin, frizzing her hair and arcing into the ground. An eerie violet light emanated from her eyes, overwhelming her irises and sclera. Elsewhere the light cracked her skin. He had only heard of something like this once before—

Oh, _Maker_.

“Fucking abomination,” the woman hissed, and Cullen felt his ribs crack in time with the clench of her fist. His vision swam as the pain washed over him, forcing the remaining air from his lungs. He was left gasping as Tessaeris gathered another bolt of lightning. One of the men hadn’t dodged fast enough, and lay twitching on the ground. He had to have been making a sound, but the only thing Cullen heard was the ringing in his ears.

Around him, he felt the world grow cold.


	8. Chapter 8

Cullen dreamed.

 

 

He didn't blame the guards for not recognizing the Herald. When they marched her into his makeshift office in the chantry, clapped in irons, he almost didn't recognize her himself, what with her face smudged with coal and half-obscured behind a dirty brown cowl.

"We found this apostate skirting the edges of the refugee camp," the first guard, the more senior of the two, explained. "She said she lived in the camp, but she refuses to give her name. We did find this, though." He laid a slender staff of charred oak across Cullen's desk. A mage's staff, without a doubt.

"I told you, that's a walking stick."

Her voice was what tipped him off. Even if he couldn't see her face, he'd recognize that lackadaisical inflection anywhere. The Herald of Andraste, cuffed and chained in the chantry for the second time.

He nodded to his men. "That will do. Thank you." They left without a word, leaving him with one Lady Trevelyan who seemed to be doing her damnedest not to look up at him.

“Well,” she said, “this is awkward.”

He looked at her.

"So," she ventured again, after the silence had stretched an uncomfortably long time, "I won't tell Cassandra if you don't."

He pinned her with a narrow stare. "This isn't funny, Herald."

"It's a little funny," she said, holding up two fingers an inch apart. "Just a little."

"Really? What part? The bit where you were arrested? Or when you decided to play dress-up as a refugee?" Decked in armor, arms crossed, he made a sharp contrast to her grubby clothes and slouched posture. Did she even care that they might have killed her? "If you had so much as raised your staff--"

"—then there'd be two dead guards outside. I'm not defenseless, and they're not templars anymore." Her voice betrayed the edge of irritation she was trying to mask. It was all there, under the surface: a smooth tension in the way she shifted all her weight to one foot, hip jutting out to the side. He'd met enough dangerous people to know it was calculated.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted with it all. "What were you even doing at the refugee camp?"

"There's a lot of sick people," she said. "It seems like the only way I can help, since Cassandra and Leliana haven't let me out since Val Royeaux."

"And the refugees trust a mage?"

"Not entirely, but more than you do."

He winced. No, tact had never been his strong suit, but something about the Lady Herald dug under his skin, making him more sharp than usual. "It's not that I don't trust mages," he started.

"But you'd rather see us chained up in a tower," she finished. "Speaking of which..." She raised the manacles and rattled the chain meaningfully.

He sighed, and drew the key from his pocket. Close enough to breathe in the scent of her, spindleweed and Ostwick spices, smothered under the char she had rubbed across her face, he felt suddenly out of his element. For reasons he could not place, he had avoided the Herald since the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and standing close enough to tuck a loose curl behind her ear felt as foreign as Orlais.

His hand brushed hers as he unlocked the second manacle, and he recoiled from the jolt.

"Sorry," she said. "Residual lightning."

Ah... "Of course." He took the irons and hid them in a drawer in his desk. He watched for a moment as the Herald rubbed her wrists, though she couldn't have been bound for more than ten minutes. An uncomfortable silence grew between them.

"I'll instruct the guard to leave the refugee apostates alone," he offered finally.

"Mages," she corrected. "There's no such thing as an apostate if there aren't any Circles."

"Right." He nodded his head for her to take her exit, until he remembered she was not one of his men. "You may leave, Lady Trevelyan."

She didn't move. "I want you to talk to Cassandra. About letting me leave Haven."

"Leliana explained that the Inquisition is the only safe place for you to be."

She shook her head. "No, not _leave_ leave. I mean let me go out on patrols, or missions, or whatever you call them."

"I don't know if that's a good idea—"

"Josephine said I was the face of the Inquisition. So let people see me, right? Doing good and helping people and all that shit the Chantry was supposed to do. Tell Cassandra you think it's a good idea."

His brow crinkled. "Do I?"

She crossed her arms, hit him with the weight of her gaze. "Would you rather I stayed here and caused headaches for you and your guards?" There it was again: whimsical, challenging, daring him to engage.

He shook his head, but couldn't keep from smiling. "I'll take it under consideration. Now please," he gestured to the door, "I have work to do." Maker, he was going to regret this. Maybe this was why he had avoided her, because he sensed that an energy that was so different from his own. He was duty and work and honor, and she... she was something else.

At the threshold, she hesitated. "Cullen? 

He glanced up from the papers littering his desk.

"Thanks."

 

 

What passed for the mess in Haven consisted of little more than a handful of tents pushed together over a half-dozen cook pots bubbling over with food equal parts filling and unappealing. By an hour past dawn, there was almost always a line stretching to the Chantry door. Seating was unheard of—most people either huddled in the tavern or the Chantry, leaving both buildings smelling of slop for the rest of the day.

After a late start, its took Cullen nearly half an hour to make his way through the line, only to end up with a bowl of something almost inedible. There were certainly priorities for the Inquisition, but he would have to talk to Josephine about improving their food supply, if for no other reason than morale.

The morning was particularly brisk, with a strong wind coming from the south that suggested a storm later. Few people were out, and most were hurrying from one building to another. Cullen made to do the same, hoping reading over even drier reports would make his breakfast more appetizing, when he was stopped by the sound of raucous laughter.

Apparently, no one had told Lady Trevelyan about the freezing weather, because she sat on a wide rock across from a campfire wearing a long tunic with the sleeves rolled up. With her were Varric and Sera, neither of which seemed reasonably dressed for the weather either. Sera appeared to be in the middle of an undoubtedly vulgar story, which had Lady Trevelyan all but rolling off her rock with laughter. Somehow, between gasping breaths, she was still shoveling food in her mouth.

"What are you doing out here?" The question escaped him before he could think better of it, and suddenly he was very aware of how out of place he was.

"Really, Curly, this is a new level of micromanagement even for you." Varric's comment was layered in humor, but they both knew it wasn't very friendly. Back in Kirkwall, neither of them had gotten along very well, especially after he had to take the Champion's sister into the Circle. Since then, his remarks always seemed a little too truthful to be friendly.

"Yeah, you gonna start decidin' where we sit to eat breakfast?" Ever since the Herald had brought back Sera, there had been a startingly increase in the number of soldiers whose shields had been vandalized with a—suggestive coat of arms. Their paths rarely crossed, and the look Sera was pinning him with made that seem intentional.

Very, very out of place. He cleared his throat. "I, ah, only meant— _how_ are you out here? It's freezing."

Sera and Varric exchanged amused glances, though for what reason he couldn't say. Finally, the Herald piped up.

"They're heat charms," she said, pulling an intricate iron pendant out from under her tunic. "Viv helped me make them. Only problem is they work a little too well, so--"

"—you run out in the snow in your breeches," Sera supplied.

Lady Trevelyan shrugged. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Ah, I see." Cullen studied the three of them for a moment, wondering if this was some kind of trick. But sure enough, he could see the matching pendants around all of them, and the runes did look like some kind of magic... "I should take my leave, then."

He swore the dwarf snorted and said something under his breath, but before he could think too much about it, Lady Trevelyan jumped to her feet. "I'll walk you back to your office," she said, her half-eaten breakfast still in one hand. "I've got some stuff I wanna run by you."

Cullen nodded, albeit somewhat tersely. In the weeks since she had been granted permission to work expeditions to the Hinterlands, the Herald had become noticeably more amiable. More than that, she had proved herself an invaluable asset in the field. With only a small group behind her, she had made more progress providing stability than the whole Inquisition had in months. The people seemed to trust her intuitively as well, even before she stripped off the glove on her left hand and showed them the mark, though that didn't hurt. In less than a month she had become a face for the Inquisition.

Once they were out of earshot of the campfire, Cullen turned to business, if for no other reason than it was familiar territory. "You wanted to discuss something, Lady Trevelyan?"

She bobbed her head and finished chewing before she answered. "Yeah, actually. It's about that whole mage-templar debacle."

Of course. The last time they had spoken, things had gotten out of hand. He could not apologize enough for the crimes of the templars, and even outside the order he still felt the hooks of loyalty. Mages were dangerous, but so were all men if pressed.

"I'd like to apologize for my words the other day. I spoke without thinking." Despite his attempt at sincerity, the Herald only looked at him, her expression muddled. "I know words cannot pay the debt owed to your people for the abuses of the Circles, but--"

He stopped when she doubled over laughing, miraculously without spilling any of her breakfast. "Shit, Cullen, that's not what I meant. I was talking about whether we're going to reach out to the templars or the mages first."

Cullen turned a shade of deep red, suddenly embarrassed by the whole thing. It didn't help that the Herald was grinning at him like he was the funniest damn thing she'd ever seen. As if sensing his discomfort, she continued quickly. "I appreciate the apology, though. I was angry then, and I think we both said things we shouldn't have. It's really admirable that you were able step up and apologize. I don't think I would have done that."

A silence fell between them, because he didn't know what to say other than "thank you." They'd barely talked before now, and to hear her compliment him—well, he wasn't sure what to make of it. She went back to scraping the bottom of her bowl, either content with the quiet or unable to think of what to say herself. He thought about maybe making it all business again, swimming back to familiar waters, but there was a sincerity in the way she had spoken that he liked. He wanted to hear it again, her speaking softly to him. She had a good voice for it.

Lady Trevelyan was chewing thoughtfully, if such a thing existed. Cullen glanced at his own untouched bowl, and suddenly had to do a double-take.

"Is that bacon?" He didn't know how he had missed it before, but sure enough, there were crumbles mixed into her meal. It probably comprised less than one whole strip, but that there was anything other than water and oats was in itself incredulous. They'd been told for weeks that there wasn't enough meat to spare for breakfast.

Lady Trevelyan's cheeks tinged pink, and she gave him a sheepish look. Caught red-handed.

"Where did you get it?" He wasn't angry, just amazed. How had she smuggled into camp? Moreover, how had she mixed it into her food without someone seeing and starting a riot? It suddenly seemed much more reasonable for her to be sitting outside, away from everyone else.

"Dessie slips it to me some mornings," she confessed, though he could tell it was painful to divulge her source. For all the good it did him.

"Dessie?" He knew the names of all his soldiers, and there was certainly no Dessie among them.

"Yeah, Dessie. She works the cook line every morning, but she's got bad joints, and the cold makes it worse. I got the stuff for a salve in the Hinterlands, and then I made her one of these." She tapped the pendant where it hung over her stomach.

Oh. It was surreal, to think he had been seeing this woman every morning for months and never learned her name, never even thought to ask for her name. But then there was the Herald, who had taken the time to learn her name and about her bad joints. He was getting a clearer image of her in the Hinterlands now. No wonder the people trusted her.

"Do you know much of salves and poultices?" He realized he was making small talk, and almost could have kicked himself. Maker preserve him, he was a grown man. He couldn't melt like this whenever a beautiful woman smiled at him. She responded before he could linger over the fact that he just thought of her as _beautiful_.

"Sort of. You get lots of basic stuff about everything in the Circle, and I studied alchemy for awhile. Wasn't very good at the advanced stuff, though. Took too much waiting." She spooned another scoop of oats and bacon and held it out to him. "Bite?"

He blinked, taking a moment to register what she meant. "Oh," he managed, "thank you." He had to stoop a little, but the awkwardness of it was outweighed by the sheer pleasure of the taste. It was weeks since his last decent meal, and even if it wasn't exactly gourmet, it tasted better than anything in world right then.

After a moment, he realized she was studying him, and instantly snapped back to professionalism. Had he been making a face? Maker, it would be just like him to make this awkward. He hurried to switch subjects.

"What did you study in the Circle, then?" It seems safe enough—not too much of a jump from where they were before, and she didn't seem to mind talking about it.

"Healing arts. It was mostly light burns and broken bones around the tower, but every now and then you'd get an old templar going through withdrawal, and that could take months." She had scraped the bowl clean, with an efficiency he didn't expect from a noble woman. "Didn't learn much fighting, though. I was really big into pacifism then. The Circles falling kind of fucked that over."

He let the information sink in for a moment. There was a certain bitterness in the way she talked about the fall of the Circles that confused him, as he had just assumed she was against them. Most mages were. It occurred to him that he had never asked her the details of her political stance, but that was decidedly not small talk. He let it go.

Healing made sense as a concentration for her, after the work he'd seen her do with the refugees, and the fact that her destructive magic was clearly self-taught. He always knew that mage spellcraft was powerful, especially for speeding the process of recovery, but he had never thought about it it beyond the strictly physical. If she knew someone who could ease the symptoms of withdrawal...

They passed through the open doors of the chantry and made for his office. Returned to his command center, he was strictly business. He flushed other thoughts about healing hands and the funny way Lady Trevelyan tied up half her hair in a minuscule bun from his mind.

She hesitated with one hand on the back of a chair, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do now that they were there. "I believe you had some insight into the 'mage-templar debacle'?" She blinked, as if returning from her thoughts, but then connected the dots.

"Oh, right. Yeah. So it's been kind of up in the air who we're contacting first, right?"

It was a rhetorical question, but he took the bait. "Right."

"So I was thinking we come at this from a long-run point of view. The mages have already tried to talk to us, which makes turning to them a lot easier than digging the templars out of wherever they're hiding. But closing the Breach is like only step one on Cassandra's to-do list, right?" He watched as she gestured excessively while she talked, brown eyes wide with excitement. "After we fix that, we have to find who caused it, yeah? And to do that we're gonna need help. Big help. Orlais-and-Ferelden-shaped help. And even if the templars left Val Royeaux, that they were there in the first place means they're in the good graces of the Empire. So by extension..."

"We could be in the good graces of the Empire, if we aligned with them." It was a good point, and surprisingly thoughtful. Thus far, the Herald had proven impulsive, emotion-driven, so when she returned from Orlais and had nothing to say about what side to take, he had been certain she'd already made up her mind.

"And you're alright with this? Siding with the templars?" The only Circle mage he had known to approve of the templars was Vivienne, but the two women were different on very fundamental levels.

"I mean, I get that it's our best bet, but I can't say I'm exactly jumping for joy over here. I don't like it, not at all, especially if there are no checks on them, but," she shrugged, "this isn't really about me. This is--"

"--politics," he finished, and she nodded. He was all too familiar with politics in decision-making. Politics had sent him to Kirkwall, and politics had pushed him up the ranks as a Fereldan in city suddenly overflowing with Fereldan refugees. He'd had enough of politics to last a lifetime.

"I'll talk to Leliana and Josephine about it. I doubt the Nightingale will be pleased, but it's a good case." It was the second time she stood in his office, asking him relay a message to the rest of the war council. When he had become her messenger pigeon of choice, he couldn't say, but there was the benefit of watching her talk. Her features were so expressive, like she couldn't lie if she tried, if she wanted to. An energy flowed through her that demanded attention, sharp and beautiful like a strike of lightning.

"You served in Kirkwall, right?" The question snapped him back from his thoughts. It took him too long to realize they had lapsed into silence again, and that he had been staring.

"Ah, yes. For several years." It came out as somewhat of an admission. He braced himself for the questions, for her to dredge up the memories he wished he could forget. It happened eventually with everyone, once they found out he'd been in Kirkwall during the uprising. They wanted to know what it was like, if he saw Meredith slipping. How could he tell them the truth? It was hell, and no, he hadn't seen it, not nearly soon enough.

"It's pretty warm there, right?" The soft ball threw him off-guard. He had been waiting to deny, avoid, and she was asking about the weather? "It's warm in Ostwick, almost all year round. I figure Kirkwall's probably about the same, what with latitude and all that."

"It's... It was warm in Kirkwall, yes," he managed finally.

"Yeah, I thought so. It's probably pretty hard acclimating to the Frostbacks after that. Here," she slipped the pendant over her head, and held it out to him. When he hesitated, she put it on him herself. "It'll help. With the cold."

She caught him at a loss for words again. The gesture felt too friendly, too familiar. He settled for a simple, if somewhat confused, "Thank you."

She bobbed her head in acquiescence, a distinct message of 'don't mention it.' "I'm gonna head out and stop by the blacksmith before we leave for the Hinterlands again," she said hastily, as if she was the one making an utter fool of herself.

 Cullen nodded. "Of course. Until later, Lady Trevelyan."

 She grinned at him. "You know I lost my title when they hauled me off to the Circle, right? I'm technically not even a Trevelyan anymore."

 He blinked, surprised by the insinuation. "What should I call you then?"

She shrugged. "What my friends call me, I guess. Mal."

He shot her a skeptical glance. "Mal? Just Mal?"

"Yeah. I mean, I call you just Cullen, right? I figure it should go both ways."

He smiled, though she wasn't trying to be funny. "Alright, Mal. Until later."

 She did her best impression of a sweeping bow and an upper crust dialect. "And you, Ser Rutherford. Til we meet again." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one week? It must be my birthday or something... oh wait, it is :P I didn't want to leave y'all on that cliffhanger for too long. 
> 
> The next several chapters will be snippets of dreams/flashbacks, in chronological order, to Inquisition-ish times. Let me know if you have any requests for things you'd like to see and I'll try to work them in.


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